It was all confused.  There were girls in miniskirts, Beatles music, the Seekers, Bob Dylan, a house full of people, a garden full of people.  Brenda had an orange dress, mini length, with dark patterned stockings.  I had been irritated by the Dane laugh, but just after one raucous outburst, Brenda giggled, said her glass needed filling, and touched my arm for support.  It was then that I thought, I was a man too, wasn't I?    It was over the orange juice and vodka that she told me her name was Weir-Smith, and I began calling her Brenda Hyphen, which she thought was hysterically funny.  I said, call me Mac, and she was happy with that.  We were edging toward the back door, and she made no objection.