I went OUT last night. Out into the big wild world.
The Littlest Chum is now reliably going to bed at 7pm and staying there until around 2am, so my social life can start to pick up again in earnest. I was invited out with my sister-in-law and a new mum friend of hers from nursery (who had the audacity to be twenty friffing five and beautiful. I ask you, some people. Tchuh.)
We went and sat in a vair naice pub garden with a cocktail and then a bottle of wine and talked about our children, our husbands and the economy. All very grown up and lovely.
Then some bright spark (me) had the wonderful idea that we should get our dancing shoes on and find a nightclub.
Groan.
Well, there is (or was) only one hip-and-happening nightspot in our town. So we headed straight there. Paid our two pounds to get in and accepted our free shot of dodgy liquor at the door. I should have twigged then that they were a bit desperate for trade.
There was not a single other person in there. Not a one.
It was like a scene from an apocalyptic film.
I was expecting zombies to burst through the door any minute.
The DJ was deep in denial, banging out club classics as though playing to a packed audience.
The bar staff were trying desperately to look busy.
It was the oddest experience. I decided the only thing for it was gin, gin makes it all better. And as usual, I was right.
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