‘No. No, I can’t.’ Typical British reticence kicks in. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘How hard does it look?’ he coaxes. ‘Everyone’s had too much to drink to take any notice.’ He pulls me to my feet. ‘Nepali people love to dance.’

Already, Saffron is strutting her funky stuff. She’s clearly been to one of those New Age ‘circle dancing’ courses and is gyrating like a thing possessed. Dave is her reluctant partner; he’s dancing with all the flair and rhythm of the average British male. I let Dean lead me to the centre of the dancing—safe in the middle, away from mocking observers that might just be waiting to pour scorn on my skills. Like who? Reluctantly, I try a few tentative twirls.

‘A natural,’ he says, laughing.

Oh, sod it! What have I got to lose? Felix and Felicity are already up and she’s prancing around like Kate Bush on a bad day. He’s doing Mick Jagger circa 1967. I’m sure if my dad were still around, even he’d be able to dance better than that. I try to join the fray. Try as I might, twirling does not come easy. My whole body is rigid with tension. When did that happen? I seem to have become so out of touch with myself. Dean whirls around me and I surrender myself to the elements and to my partner.

The music flows from one song to another seamlessly and we spin until I’m even dizzier than I was before. ‘I have to sit down!’

‘Okay,’ Dean says. ‘You’ve proved you can do it.’

And I can do it. Me—whose idea of a good night out is dinner in a sophisticated little restaurant or maybe a few glasses of Chardonnay in a prissy wine bar. I’ve never twirled around in a starlit field before, swigging beer and local gutrot from a tin mug.

The girls take up the song and sing a couple of choruses, followed by the young men who chant in response.

I lean over to Dean. ‘What are they singing?’

‘This is a courtship song,’ he explains, looking slightly sheepish. ‘One of the girls is looking for a husband. It’s very cheeky.’ He gives an embarrassed shrug. ‘The women say what they want, and the men answer. Tonight, one of them is likely to find himself with a wife.’

‘Beats dancing round your handbag at the disco.’

‘It’s probably just a variation of it,’ Dean rationalises. ‘Single women wear those colourful, striped aprons at the back to show that they’re still available. It’s unusual to have women porters,’ he says. ‘It isn’t considered a fitting job for an unattached female. This would be frowned upon in their villages. These girls are really striking a blow for feminism.’

‘Good for them.’