I’ve always hated reunions. Always will.

I picked out a plum-coloured evening gown, trying to live up to my eccentric and over the top reputation. Later in the day I had been to Christo’s salon, where my naturally grey hair became raven wood black.

I entered the renovated basketball hall, dressed with sashes of aquamarine blue, carrying an absurdly large cigarette holder. My heels cut into my wrinkled heels and I was unusually aware of the size my legs had swollen to.

I could feel a dozen or so people staring at the back of my head, and I could practically hear the sniggering and the whispers already. They hated me, and I hated them.

I waltzed my way to the punch table, and poured myself an overflowing glass that a 65 year old should not attempt to drink. As I brought the cup to my lips, a blundering baffoon smacked into me, and my punch splattered all over me.

Furious, I decided to leave immediately. A man whose looks were ruined by his bald patch tried to talk to me, so I ran.

I hate reunions.