It’s been years since I went to a nightclub and when I stood there, clasping a bottle of beer to my chest and looking like I’d just arrived to pick up my kids, I vowed I’d never do it again.
One hour later, I was in another club. The beer was more expensive and the clientele older, but I still felt horribly out of place. The music, which I am told was Hip Hop, gave me a headache.
Where was the Earth, Wind and Fire? The communards or Abba? (You see, I told you it had been a long time since I went clubbing). I longed to unleash my inner Pan’s People and sing along. ‘Oooh, see that girl, watch that scene, dig in the dancing Queen,’ etc etc. But no. These were thumping hits I have never heard before, with lyrics like ‘I want your pussy’ and I am pretty sure they weren’t referring to anything pets related.
There were hand gestures that went with the lyrics and everybody seemed to know them apart from me. I was doing hand hearts and pointing in all the wrong places and would have looked like a jerk had anyone been sober enough to notice.
I left early. I went to bed at 3.30am and consequently, thanks to an early start some four hours later, I sleepwalked through the day with a cracking headache.
I wasn’t my best, sparkling self on the final day of the three day industry event. I looked about 154 and struggled to stay awake during the talks. Thankfully, it was only a half day, but still, that’s half a day out of three that I sabotaged.
I hadn’t really wanted to go in the first place, but I allowed myself to be chivvied along by younger, more energetic colleagues. ‘No, really, I hate nightclubs,’ I said. ‘Go on! Everybody’s going. It’ll be fun,’ they cooed. I had an attack of FOMO (fear of missing out) and off I tripped.
It’s done now, so no point in raking over it, but I’ve learned a valuable lesson. Trust your instincts, be in bed by 11pm and leave the night to the young.
I embrace my inner 1970s goddess.