The music was dreadful. He hated all that Seventies mush. Awful, tuneless nonsense he thought it was. He much preferred Punk, or rock. Not this West Coast mindless, boring, dreary—
“You’re miles away,” Helen shouted, tossing her hair around, her ponytail fanning wide.
There were so many people jumping and weaving about that it was virtually impossible to move in the tight press of bodies. He smiled, and shouted, “I’m okay.”
“Are you really having a good time?”
“Yes.” But no thanks to the music, which now changed to ‘Hotel California’. People cheered, some clapping, most singing. He groaned. Helen moved closer, took him around the waist and they danced to the quite appalling rendition of what ranked as Salmon’s least favourite songs of all time.
There were a few others by Chicago and w
