Sitting sedately among screaming women flashing their knickers while dancing to a tribute act was not Miss Hardbroom's idea of fun. The only one who wasn't doing it was Miss Drill but as she always wore trousers, that was not much of an achievement. She was currently whipping her jacket off and whirling it tipsily over her head while uttering some sounds that sounded like a peacock being strangled. Constance stared at the entertainment, considered the appeal of this Elvis person. She couldn't see it herself. What was there to go wild over some greasy haired man who shifted his hips like he was trying to relieve a nasty itch? She shook her head. She'd never understand this trend of having ordinary themed parties. Were magic traditions not enough? Even Miss Cackle was bobbing around ungainly to the music but then she'd been a little sloshed on pink drinks for a while now. There was a free bar and the drinks were extensive. Constance had lost patience with the choice and had ordered a lemonade. Imogen's first choice was a blue cocktail. No wonder she was up for it, she knew all about these non-magical customs. She'd organised most of it. Constance sniffed as a pair of lacy purple knickers caught on the singer's quiff. The women crowed with delight over having such good aim. Thankfully it was a spare pair. The Elvis impersonator curled his lip and mumbled some nonsense while draping the knickers over the microphone. Constance was getting bored of this drivel. Thankfully he was nearly finished.

The DJ was not much better. He kept winking at Constance and she didn't know why. She was hardly an easy lay. The bride-to-be walked past and put a hand on her shoulder. Constance stiffened. She wasn't sure she liked the woman. What was her name again? Arabella Hempnettle?

'DJ Icy likes a woman who plays it cool.'

Constance blinked.

'What?'

'Treat them mean, keep them keen.'

'I'm not doing anything to encourage his attentions' said Constance stiffly.

'Exactly. He'll be stalking towards you like prime catnip.'

Constance glared. She did not want to be anyone's catnip.

'Where have you been all my life?'

She turned to glare at him. He sat down looking transfixed.

'Excuse me?'

'I can see you on a beach terrace, somewhere in the south of France, cocktail in hand, enjoying the sun. I could paint a picture.'

'Paint a picture somewhere else' she sniffed.

'The south of France would be perfect' he laid a hand on her arm. She looked down at it. Somewhere nearby she could hear Davina and Lavinia conducting a rousing version of the hedgehog song.

'Imogen Drill is available in the summer holiday.'

'But you. You're magnificent.'

'Your hand is on my arm.'

'We could make magic together' he told her earnestly.

She huffed with impatience. The man was incorrigible. He knew nothing of real magic. She turned to him and pointed downwards, zapped his chair from under him. He collapsed in a heap as Imogen swept by to hand her a lemonade.

'Goodbye Mr Icy.'

'Falling at her feet already' giggled Imogen. She'd found roller skates in the spare cupboard and was zooming around, showing off for the audience.

'Ahem. I think…'

He got up and limped off as some of the hens snorted with laughter.

'Magic is not to be used for trivial and frivolous purposes.'

'I was disposing of a nuisance that afflicted us all' said Constance promptly. 'A public service, that is all.'

'Quite right' bellowed Amelia. 'Boot him out for had behaviour. Let's have another drink.'

Ursula Hallow had taken over the DJ desk, cheering like an idiot. Too much giggle juice, as Constance's mother would have said. She sipped her lemonade and wondered what the time was. Nobody could say that she didn't join in the party. She was here wasn't she? And she'd bounced an unwanted advancer out. She felt quite accomplished.