On Saturday night the hotel management threw a party for the guests. A Summer Party. We kicked off at 6.30 p.m. with tall drinks and canapés on the terrace. While we quaffed and nibbled and chatted, a singer sang to us. She sang her heart out to our indifferent backs and sunburnt necks. It was as if she were invisible to us, or her passion made her unreal.
Then we went inside for a sumptuous buffet supper in the ballroom. Here, a five-piece band, including an accomplished lead guitarist with a golden earring, was doing its best to make the party go. The food queue passed right in front of him, and we stood there clutching our plates and chatting as though he wasn’t there either.
Only after dessert did two sprightly oldsters show appreciation of the band’s music by getting up to dance.
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