The first thing that struck me was the air. Did I say 'air'? There was less smog clinging to the stage for the Ermine-Troupe's musical adaptation of 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue' during Maris' amateur dramatics phase. My god, that was the stuff of nightmares, on so many levels.

Anyway, there was definitely an herbacious haze drifting inside the trailer. I glanced at Daphne, wrinkling my nose and shooting her a questioning look. She nodded briefly, confirming my theory and asking silently if this bothered me. It did a little (well all right, more than a little), but I smiled reassuringly to pretend I wasn't completely freaked out by the presence of illegal drugs.

I was distracted, then, by wondering when exactly it was that we'd become able to communicate with only a look.

Michael led us through to a large living area, where three men lounged on cushioned benches surrounding a table, one of them holding a young, scantily-clad woman in his lap; apparently there are occasions when underwear becomes simply ... wear. The smog thickened. I began to inconspicuously check the trailer for emergency exits.

"Fellas ... I want you to meet my sister!" Michael announced, with endearing brotherly pride. Daphne stepped forward at his gesture and we all watched him point out the various band members to her. "Daphne, this is Pete, that's Reggie and the lowlife over there corrupting that poor young lady is our vocalist, Timbo." Pete got up to shake hands, but the other two simply waved. Reggie appeared to be in the middle of rolling another joint, even as one dangled from his lips. Michael stepped back and completed introductions. "And her friends, Niles and Maggie."

"Nice to meet you," Pete said to Daphne. "Michael's really been looking forward to this date, so he could meet up with you."

It was kind of strange, to be in the midst of a crowd of people who all spoke with the same accent as Daphne. She must have found it weird, too, after six years of being the odd one out. Her own Mancunian twang seemed to intensify slightly in response. "Nice to meet you too," she said amiably. "You're the keyboard player, aren't you?"

"That's right. Keyboard, synth, Rhodes ... if it's black and white, I'll give it a bash."

"Aye, scares the shit out of zebras, does our Pete," came the deadpan observation from Tim the vocalist.

"Not to mention penguins," Reggie added, his words muffled and his current joint wobbling alarmingly. "And pandas."

"Thanks Reg, we get the idea," smirked Tim in affectionate exasperation, as soon as we realised that Reggie would happily sit there all evening, thinking up items that met the 'black and white' criteria.

"And dominoes."

"Shut up Reggie!"

"Not that you can really tell when a domino is frightened," Reggie added, oblivious to Tim's shaking head as he stared into space and presumably conjured the image of a domino quaking with fear.

"Well, you've got something in common with Niles, then," Daphne observed, reaching with her hand to pull me forward and shooting a cautious look at the occupants of the table. "He's a pianist, too."

Nobody bothered with the traditional pun, for which I was inordinately grateful.

Moments later, Pete and I were deep in a musical discussion, ensconced in a corner of the bench, and Daphne was sitting beside Michael, catching up on all his news. Maggie had sat herself down next to Reggie and was helping him work his way through a large bag of dried plant bits, which had caught my interest for a moment. I'd never seen marijuana before, not even at college. I was intrigued, in a vaguely discomfited kind of a way.

People drifted in and out of the trailer as the evening went on; band members, musicians from other bands, hangers on. I lost track of most of the names. Maggie and Reggie were soon interacting with the easy familiarity of two people getting wasted together. After a little while, Pete offered to show me his set-up, and I happily acceded. To be honest, I was ready for a breath of fresher air. The constant smell of burning grass was making me a little light-headed. Clinton might have admitted smoking the stuff without inhaling. I was inhaling without even smoking it.

We walked the length of the trailer, stopping outside a door at the far end. Pete opened up and gestured that I should go inside. It was a smallish room, with two narrow beds dominating, and a mess of wires and keyboards and other electronic equipment growing creeper-like around one corner. Pete hit a few switches and various lights came on. He selected some buttons and then pressed a key. A warm, organic sound was emitted, and he traced a scale up and down the keyboard.

Fifteen minutes later I'd found my way around the preset sounds the instrument was capable of producing, and was playing along to a drum beat that my fellow musician had started. Ten minutes after that, we were playing back by means of something called a sequencer, the impromptu results of what Pete referred to as our 'jam sesh'. I have to say - it was really fun. I wanted to get a set-up like that for myself. Then I thought of the way Frasier might view my new interest in synthesisers as opposed to, say, looking for a new baby grand ... at which point it seemed like an even better idea.

Pete asked me if I wanted to do anything else, but I was missing Daphne, lovesick fool that I am. I told him I'd exhausted my creative impulses for the evening and went to stand up, but he put his hand on my thigh and told me he hadn't been talking about music.

Isn't that just typical?

I go away on a weekend, to a music festival, no less, in the hope of spending time with Daphne, and whose ardour do I attract? The male keyboard player in her brother's band. It was the damned ski-lodge all over again. I told Pete as gently as I could that I was very flattered but wasn't that way inclined. He seemed a little surprised, but immediately retracted his hand and apologised.

We returned to the main room as friends, I'd like to think. At least this time around my would-be Romeo had bothered to ask before creeping into my bed ...