Expecting the worst?

I've been invited to a barbecue at Tom's house this weekend. I don't see that I have a choice, but I'd rather not go. I have a horrible feeling that his family are all as –how can I put this kindly? – unusual as Tom is. I've had enough uncomfortable encounters at parties to last a lifetime really, and I don't want to get stuck in a scenario where I feel like a tourist in Weirdville. I have these horrible visions of spending three hours in a closed room full of carpet-fitters and crystal-freaks, being force-fed sparkling water while Tom and his family sing kumbaya. I shudder just to think of it.
I'm not even convinced they want me there really, I think they've just invited me to be polite because they were talking about it in front of me at work. Or maybe they really do want me there because it gives them a chance to get their weirdo spiritual claws into me and commence integrating me into their twisted, cloud-worshipping web of pseudo-scientific cultness.
Man, my thoughts run off by themselves sometimes, don't they?
I think I'll just chance it and go along. Might be good for my career. And I've never been one to pass up free food and drink, even if it's likely to be fat-free, vegan and tasteless.

RC 22-4-10