I like to think they are all eating sausage rolls stolen from the buffet, and watching Cheers.
I notice she – along with all my Greek in-laws – seems to have rendered herself willingly and wholly blind to the fact that my bridesmaid was a six-foot-two gay man called Charlie, who was wearing silver trousers and a pink cape.
We try, ineffectually, to slow dance to it, on a wholly empty dancefloor, as everyone watches us doing a romantic ‘indie shuffle’.
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They only ever mention the other bridesmaid – Polly.
Whose bra is visible above her strapless dress, and is rocking a tattoo of a dolphin saying F***. As everyone shiveringly evacuates on to the lawn, I notice all of my siblings are missing.
Going back into the hotel to find them, I knock on the door of my sister’s room.
I find all seven siblings in here – standing on the bed, waving room-service menus under the smoke detector.
For a month, I rode some kind of relaxed sex galleon around London, like a lady pirate – remembering, again, how every conversation with a member of the opposite sex carries with it that tiny, atom-small, atomic-bright possibility: ‘Hello. ’And every Thursday, I would invite over Pete from Melody Maker, cook him soup and tell him all these stories – ‘So I rang Room Service, and asked for a steak sandwich, and a pair of men’s pants’ – while we played records, and cried laughing.