I've never been to a party I didn't want to leave.

Over the last few days, plans have been laid for my brother's wedding and all its associated (sigh) festivities. My father is going to the stag do in Hamburg (I said the Reeperbahn was a district of dubious repute, but that's probably why they're going) and my mother and sister are going to the hen night at The Birdcage in Manchester.

I've not been invited anywhere.

Except, of course, to the wedding itself where, it is implied, I will disappoint people if I don't turn up.

My misadventures at parties are well known in the family, from the times I sat in the car at my mother's cousins' parties to the time I left very early during my parents' Silver Wedding because it was too crowded and noisy. My alternative way of coping, should easy escape not be possible, is to drink too much. My chocolate throwing antics at my grandparents' on Boxing Day 1991 are particularly famous.

I am damned for not enjoying myself, or being enjoyable, or not trying hard enough at either. And when I try, I am damned for getting it wrong. To be quite frank, the way I'm treated by my family, I have doubts they know the difference between 'mentally ill' and 'mentally retarded', such is the patronising way they deal with me.

If certain assurances are not made for me, I'm not going.

'Disappointments' or not.