TRENDS. Such a curious concept to wrap the head around as we get older. There was a recent story in the New York Times about how disco balls are making a comeback. I found this ever-so-slightly discombobulating.

Firstly, because I had been blithely oblivious to the fact that disco balls – those glittering, mirrored dancefloor decorations – had been languishing in the style doldrums. Secondly, because I can't remember the last time that I saw one in the wild, so to speak.

Having racked my brain it occurred to me that my last close encounter with a disco ball was at a curry karaoke some time ago. And by that, I mean pre-pandemic. Give or take a decade. Yikes.

Curry karaoke. Remember when that was a thing? At some point in the mid-noughties someone decided that spicy food and bad singing were the perfect combination. It was amazing how many people, me included, got on board with that naff concept.

I even incorporated curry karaoke into my hen party in 2010, a day-long soiree that began with a posh afternoon tea, all finger sandwiches and fondant fancies, and ended with me clutching a microphone sticky with neon-hued pakora sauce.

A disco ball was the defining memory of another ill-fated curry karaoke night. As fellow diners belted out ropey renditions of Angels and I Will Survive, the venue staff actively encouraged dancing on the tables as part of the fun (yes, the same tables that a hot food buffet was being served on).

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My friend, enjoying a lively rendition of Come On Eileen, got up for a boogie. Her lofty perch meant her head was only inches from the low ceiling in the dingy basement venue. She accidentally unhooked a twinkling disco ball with an errant dance move.

It crash-landed with a thump. Then began trundling ominously along the tabletop – a bit like the giant boulder chasing Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark – leaving carnage in its wake, as wine glasses were toppled and food splattered in every direction.

Having made impressive haste, said disco ball was last seen disappearing through an open doorway that led to the kitchen and toilets.

There is a point to this column, I promise, which is the somewhat confusing epiphany that, a bit like curry karaoke, one day you are a hip, young thing and then one day you are not.

But here's the kicker: it is only when you are no longer a hip, young thing that you realise, in truth, you never were. It was a mirage. A trick of the mind. Time is a shape-shifting and complex beast.

I also hear that speed dating – another noughties trend – is enjoying a revival having fallen out of fashion with the advent of dating app Tinder in 2012.

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Perhaps countless hours spent staring at tiny, disembodied heads on screens has made folk crave in-person contact? That can only be a good thing. People over pixels. I wonder if curry karaoke might enjoy a similar resurgence in the not-too-distant future. Stranger things have happened.

As for the runaway disco ball? It could still be out there now for all I know. Criss-crossing continents and bobbing across oceans. A rolling stone – or sparkly sphere – gathers no moss.

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