Lights, camera ... sequins and disco balls.
Glow sticks, pebbles and marshmallows.
I have been introduced to the primary school disco - a completely foreign concept for a child of the '70s.
In the day, I remember school dances being in a fully-lit country hall, with a muted sound-system. If there was even a sound system. More likely it was one of the teachers on the guitar singing Kumbaya and the wildest it ever got was the Hokey Tokey.
The attire was fancy dress and the prevailing theme was one of wholesomeness.
Glitter balls and pelvic thrusts didn't come into it until at least intermediate.
But times have moved on and so has the school "dance".
The school hall was fair shaking as Miss Five handed over her ticket and stepped inside.
For the first 15 minutes of the hour-long event she stuck to my side, covering her ears against the throbbing bass.
"It's too loud," she complained, as a bevy of teenyboppers bust their moves around her.
Mesmerised by the light-dappled, ceiling she tried to take it all in.
She had probably imagined something more Wiggles than Saturday Night Fever - and to be honest, so had I.
To break the ice we went to the canteen and bought a little "finger light" and a bag of pebbles. Perhaps a bit of food colouring would get her going?
Whether it was that, or she had just warmed up, but soon after she found her groove.
Her finger in the air like John Travolta, she started thrashing around wildly and didn't stop for the next 45 minutes.
Meanwhile, one of her little girlfriends was trailing a boy in their class who, oblivious to her affections, headed off in the opposite direction without giving her a second glance.
And the "cool girls" took centre stage, with moves I wouldn't have expected them to know for at least another 10 years.
The sole song I recognised was Y.M.C.A. but the only ones doing alphabetical moves were the teachers.
I desperately wanted to show the kids how it was done but I had no intention of making myself more conspicuous than Willy Wonka in a room full of Oompa-Loompas.
No, it takes more confidence and talent than I have to work a dance floor dominated by waist-high wannabes.
If only I had smuggled some vodka in the Barbie bottle.
When, by popular demand, the final song vibrated through the speakers, I exchanged bewildered looks with the parents around me.
None of us recognised it.
Welcome to the new generation.
