The booth’s confessionals

Just finished a wedding in the Cotswolds—three hours of dancing, two breakdowns from bridesmaids, one groom who tried to moonwalk into the buffet. I’ve been doing this for twelve years, and I still don’t know how to handle the silence between songs when someone’s crying. The booth’s not just a stage; it’s a confessional. Last night, a woman whispered, 'Play that song again,' and I did. She didn’t say why. I didn’t ask. That’s the job. I wear my old shoes now—scuffed, soft, like they’ve heard every story. New ones are too loud.