The wedding took place on a country estate. The bride's family were rich and had hired what looked like a Norman stronghold. It was summer and we were gathered on the lawn. Dinner and afternoon drinks were followed by aimless socialising. I asked lots of people what they did, and talked about how lovely the bride looked.
The day after the ball, I felt fine. I did not harbour the dread that follows a night of self-abasement. Still, the picture of my pasty visage was a giveaway. I had shamed myself. The newsletter was quarterly so I would have to endure its presence in the canteen for some time. I could destroy every copy but they would only be replenished by a keen intern.
I attend a weekly class at our local dancing school. The one with all the mummies in it trying to relive their youths and thinking they are cool. (We aren't, we know that, but we still have a lot of fun!) Anyway, this week the teacher was talking about her pet pugs and how if they were people they would make terrible dancers.
Festivals might not quite lead to a dancing plague, but there is a sense that anything can happen. Laura recalled the first year of Wilderness festival: "We ended up teaching hundreds of people the conga, on stage with a bunch of naked people. That has to be a professional first! But this is what we love about Wilderness, you never really know where the experience will take you."