I could get seriously addicted to this rakshi if it didn’t taste quite so much like neat petrol. Tonight’s entertainment, after the obligatory traditional Nepali songs and dancing, is being provided by a bunch of strait-laced Brits whose tongues have been artificially loosened due to excessive consumption of the local hooch. Saffron started off the proceedings while we were still relatively sober with a rendition of two folk songs that were probably sung by Lindisfarne or some other longhaired bunch in the 1970s. Her voice was all wobbly and she did actually put her finger in her ear in the ilk of all good folk singers, which was quite scary. She ate the mutton curry tonight as if it was going out of fashion, but I’m still not convinced that it isn’t a front. She’s far too ‘Greenpeace’ to be a real carnivore.

Dave and Jim sing the theme tune from Auf Wiedersehen Pet in mock-Geordie accents and the poor porters look more bemused at our cabaret by the minute. I feel none of this is suitable recompense for their heart-warming songs of love, beauty and sacrifice handed down through generations—and I suspect they feel the same. The time for my party trick is fast approaching. Dean pulls my hand.

‘I can’t do this,’ I protest. ‘Really, I can’t.’

He shows no mercy. ‘Go, girl!’

The last time I sang in public, I was at St Stephen’s School and I was in the second-year choir—quite some time ago by anyone’s calculation. I’ve always avoided karaoke like the plague, deeming it totally uncool and generally demeaning to all concerned. In my adult years I’ve always been more of an appreciative-audience type rather than an active participant. Now I’m going to attempt to sing without the help of background music or even a song sheet. There are very few tunes that I could even contemplate, given the circumstances.

I stand in the circle, petrified—you could hear a pin drop, I’ll swear it. At least I’ve had a huge amount to drink and in a few weeks’ time I’ll never have to face any of these people ever again. Everyone is looking very expectant. I clear my throat.

I have chosen the anthem of all recently dumped women as my vocal début. The grandmother of all ‘get lost’ songs. I launch forth into ‘I Will Survive’, thanking Gloria Gaynor for her services to karaoke and heartbroken girlies everywhere. I do it rather enthusiastically, calling on my vast experience of therapeutic nights at some disco or another, bolstering myself or one of my dear friends after yet another failed relationship. I can’t believe it was a man who wrote this song.