Pain, Public humiliation and Patricide

Last weekend we went to a Greek restaurant for my brothers birthday. The food was ok, he loved his presents and there was much hilarity as we watched each other get dragged up by the waiting staff to participate in the Greek dancing.
Earlier on in the night I decided to embarrass my brother [my duty as an older sister] by asking the guy playing the guitar in the corner to play happy birthday for him. The whole restaurant joined in. I thought 'Great, my work here is done'.
As the night progressed there was a fair amount of drinking. Not by me, as I was driving but suffice to say spirits around the table were merry.
As people finished up their meals the guy with the guitar was back. This time he had ideas beyond the singing. This time his chosen method of humiliation was getting people to dance in the middle of the restaurant.
Who do you think he approached first? The girl who asked him to sing to her brother. Me. I politely refused, showing him my dangerously high CFM's - those shoes ain't made for dancing.
He eventually got my brother and his girlfriend up while I fumbled to get my camera on movie mode. When you review what I recorded it is basically several inebriated restaurant patrons dancing in a circle to the accompaniment of evil cackling from behind the camera [I didn't realise I was doing it so close to the mic. oops].
Everyone had a sit down after that for a while and more to drink. However, little did I know, the dancing was not done for the evening. The guy came back and dragged me - and my unwieldly - shoes to the floor. I dragged my friend - as public humiliation loves company. The dance progressed with the waiter telling me I had to show off my beautiful shoes in response to my protests that I was likely to break an ankle [his would have been my first choice].
This was NOT the ideal maiden voyage for these shoes. I wore them because I planned to spend the evening SITTING DOWN. Not attempting unfamiliar dance moves in the cold light of sobriety.
I had the grip of iron on the waiter and my friend next to me and had to concentrate far too hard on not rolling my ankle to actually get the steps right. Rhythm was not the order of the evening.
Eventually I made my escape and filmed more of my brother and his girlfriend getting into the dancing. I am much more comfortable laughing from the sidelines than joining in.
I limped my sorry feet to the car and drove my family home.
Later in the evening I decided the shoes HAD to come off. I was in the car, with my friend at the petrol station and getting them off involved hitching a foot on top of the steering wheel and rotating it round so I could reach the buckle. Most people would have opened the door and leaned down but clearly I am not most people. Instead I rested my foot on the steering wheel. More specifically ON THE HORN on the steering wheel.
The guy parked in the car next to us turned around at the sound of the car horn just in time to see me struggling to remove the patent silver CFM's and attempting to disentangle my foot from the steering wheel. I think he locked his doors after that.
I drove home with WELTS on my ankles. WELTS I tells ya. On the whole the evening was what I expected from a night out with my family. Pain, public humiliation and thoughts of patricide.