My clubbing days are over…not yet!

On Friday several people were subjected to the spectacle that is me pretending I am still young and going out clubbing – with the young ‘uns no less!

The whole thing started with me organising a night out for a friend who is off to pastures new.  She asked me to organise it, so I did.  I organised tables, times, location and made sure everyone knew where it was, what time.  I also spent the entire of last week shaking off suggestions that I might go clubbing at night.  No way, I told the young ‘uns, Gemma’s clubbing days are long over.  I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been in a club but the young ‘uns liked to hear of my clubbing days so I regaled them with tales of clubbing days gone by.  This only made them more determined to get me to go clubbing.

The evening, for me, started at  18:00.  Dinner with a friend.  Early dinner of course because we both were going to this night out and both intended being home for eleven, twelve at the latest.  At.  The.  Latest.

The leaving do was good, plenty people turned up.  Everyone who said they would plus a few others! As per usual I attracted an ‘unsavoury’ character who tried to chat me up by telling me all the wines you should have with certain food (while I was buying the cheapest plonk on the menu).  He then concluded that he never drank wine, only with steak – which he never ate (no teeth I reckon).  I asked him what he did drink “aw just Tennents hen”.  Unsavoury characters are attracted to me, I don’t know what it is.  I suppose this guy was no harm, although he did keep staring at me for ages after, until the Tennents rendered him sightless.

Anyway, the night went on, everyone was having a good time, lots of laughs, no trouble and I was sitting thinking to myself that I could head home safe in the knowledge that my friend had had a good night and was having fun.  The friend I had had dinner with was offered a lift home about eleven so she went.   All good, I thought, when the young ‘uns head off clubbing, I’ll head home.  My bus stop was just across the road.

A short time later I heard the young ‘uns making their club plans and my mind was on my duvet, a hot water bottle (was chilly!) and a bit of TV while I drifted off to sleep…

Somehow, and I have no idea how this happened, I ended up clubbing with the young ‘uns.  Me, an oldie, and several young ‘uns in their mid to early twenties.  I think I was the oldest person in the club, never mind just the group I was with.  However, that didn’t stop me dancing like a 1920’s flapper at one point and like a complete loony at another point.

In my mind I’d like to think I was the “fun oldie out with the young ‘uns” but I think reality is completely different from that.  I’ll likely be the subject of hilarity at the next young ‘uns gathering.

I left the club well before closing time (a real sign of my age that) and stoated towards Lothian Road to get my night bus.  I’m not particularly a taxi person, not when a bus will take me to the same place for less than a quarter of the price! (I’m no good a economics, it might be less than that!).

Saturday morning dawns.  I awaken to a bright, sunny day.  I know this because I seem to have had some argument with the curtains upon my arrival home and they are only half shut, the sun now streaming through the blinds.  My clothes from the night before are in a pile on the floor and my pyjamas, although on, are inside out.  I have managed to get my jewellery off and it’s safe.  I’ve got a nasty case of conjunctivitis, I think, but once I actually dare to look in the mirror I realise I haven’t taken my make up off and the itchiness in my eyes is due to falling asleep with my eye make-up still intact.  Now it’s smeared under my eyes (and in them) of course.

Having no idea what time I left the club or got home, I check my phone and find a text from my friend asking me if I got home OK, timed at 02:30.  I also spot the word “PAID” stamped on my right hand.  This, I would assume, means I had paid to get into the club and am now branded as such.  The trouble is, I have no recollection of paying to get into the club.

PAID

PAID

Throughout the course of the morning I received several texts enquiring whether I was “rough” or not and if my head was OK.  My replies might have been a source of disappointment to the young ‘uns as I don’t particularly suffer hangovers.  I was exceptionally tired though, although that might have been a result of excessive dancing coupled with the walk to Lothian Road in the small hours – all this was done in heels.

In an odd sort of way, I am glad I went clubbing.  It has reaffirmed to me that my nights in the pub are all I really need.  For now.  No doubt, somewhere down the line I’ll be tempted to strut my stuff in a club and I’ll give in to that temptation so are my clubbing days over? Not yet, I reckon, although I won’t be darkening the door step of one again in any hurry!

2 Comments

  1. Kev says:

    As an occasional taxi driver on a Saturday:Sunday give me a holler if you get stuck in future, be a pleasure to meet you

    GGTTH

    Kev

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