Family party hell

I love my family. When they're on their own or in small groups, I cope fine. Put them all together in a house, a function room or a village hall, however, and add a disco, booze and a buffet and they become afflicted by Family Do-itis. It's a serious condition and it's contagious. Usually, before I'm even out of the car, I transform from 'Liz the assertive crip' into 'Elizabeth the special little girl'.

When I was 18 I went to a family birthday party. All I wanted was a bowl of sherry trifle from the buffet. Instead, my cousin approached me, laid her hands on my head, closed her eyes and began to pray over me. She thought she could evoke the power of the Holy Spirit but the only spirits in evidence that night were the three Bacardi and Cokes that she'd already drunk. I missed out on a cure and the trifle.

On the way home, I vowed I would never go to another family party. When you're the product of an Irish Catholic family, this is no easy feat. For the past sixteen years, however, I have managed to be creatively 'unavailable' for family parties: "I've been imprisoned at Guantanamo", "I'm trying to secure peace in the Middle East", "I'm de-worming my assistance dog".

I recently decided to end my family party fasting. This time, I was prepared: I looked fantastic, I had a PA on call, I had friends with me and I strategically sat behind a table so that people's access to me was limited. No one was going to try to heal me this time.

The first contender, my aunty, approached. I felt confident that she couldn't break my defences down. She smiled, swaying to the music and said, "come and have a dance with your favourite aunty". It wasn't a question. It was an inevitability. Older people are practically impossible to deny.

As the Grease Megamix kicked into full volume, she took hold of my wrists and began to move my arms up and down in a plinkety-plonk fashion in time to the music. It was less Dirty Dancing and more Thunderbirds. I felt like a marionette and she was my puppeteer. What could I do? I smiled and surrendered - I defy anyone else to do otherwise in the situation.

I didn't think it could get much worse until I heard the first few all too familiar notes of 'New York, New York' and my body slumped in defeat. Sinatra has a lot to answer for.

In a long-held family tradition, everyone gathered in a circle on the dance floor, put their arms around each other and began to kick their legs in the air. Family feuds were forgotten and everyone was friends for this one dance.

My dad saw I wasn't participating and 'pushed' me over to the dance floor. After 20 years, he still hasn't learnt that you can't push a power chair.

Resistance was futile. If I'd opted out now, I would have been seen as a crip with a chip who gets upset when she sees people dancing.

The family circle opened to let me in and everyone looked at me expectantly. I became the centre of their circle. "Theeese little town bluessssss", they sang as they kicked their legs higher towards me. As heels and soles whistled past my ears, I was a nervous wreck and felt increasingly uncomfortable.

Should I have improvised and wheeled forward and back to emulate high kicking? Less Can-Can and more Can't-Can't. I don't have one of those uppy downy electric chairs but at that moment I wished I had.

Since I can only raise each foot about an inch from the footplate, I didn't think anyone would notice. With the time and effort involved, the song would have been over before I'd even begun.

In the end, the decision was made for me. Once again, my aunty lurched towards me, singing, swaying and clapping along to Ol' Blue Eyes. I was sure she was going to make me dance with her. It was a huge relief when she didn't grab my wrists again. But then, shock horror, she took hold of each leg at the ankle instead and lifted them in turn so that it looked like I too was kicking in time with the song. I had no choice but to sing along: "These vagabond wheels, really are quite desperately longing to stray..."