When I left you last, I was getting ready for my first Saturday night out in Central London, possibly since my twenties.
I managed to find something to wear, apply a few layers of concealer and run a hot tong through my hair before leaving the house. On time, I might also add!
These are my observations of how things have moved on ‘out there’ in the last decade.
We met in a cocktail bar. In my twenties, we would probably have met at someone’s house, armed with a bottle of vodka and an array of costume changes. It is far more civilised now that I am a respectable 30-something.
We actually ordered cocktails and knew that we would be able to pay for them. In my twenties, we would probably have split a bottle of house wine in a pub. One of those classy establishments where you get two bottles for £5.
We went for dinner to a little tapas place across the street and loaded up on not very much really, but the thought was there. Next time, we must remember to order more carb based dishes and fewer bottles of wine.
In my twenties, we would have skipped this stage of the evening entirely.
After dinner, we went back to the cocktail bar, which was unfortunately about to close, so some bright spark had the idea to move on to The Sanderson for cocktails instead.
In my defence, everyone else agreed that it was a marvellous idea too.
This is when my recollection of events starts to get a bit blurry.
The same bright spark then had the idea to organise a photo shoot in the back of the taxi, which was quite obviously hilarious. Maybe just to us.
I think you had to be there to fully appreciate the different scenarios we were trying to recreate.
The doorman at The Sanderson refused to let us in when we fell out of the cab 15-minutes later. This would not have happened in my twenties. We would most certainly have been ushered in and escorted to a table.
Eventually, when he realised that we were not going away any time soon, he opened the door and let us go inside. I think we might have whooped or clapped or something. I don’t remember all the minor details.
The Sanderson was packed full of gorgeous people in their twenties. This has always been the way.
Back when I was trying to be one of them, there would always be a group of 4 women on the wrong side of 35, enjoying a rare night away from their families and getting absolutely smashed while dancing maniacally at the bar.
Only difference being, that this time it was us.
I am not sure that I will ever be able to return.
‘We should go home now’ one of us announced (and I am pretty sure it was not me) over the music. To which we all stopped dancing, picked our coats up off the floor and walked off, leaving 4 vodka & tonics untouched on the bar.
This would never have happened in my twenties. Both the leaving of the bar and of the vodkas.
On stepping outside into the cold air, we went off in search of a cab. For about an hour. The roads were deserted. We walked up and down Oxford Street, arms linked, swaying and singing. I cannot think why we did not look like desirable passengers.
I have no idea where all the taxi drivers hang out on a Saturday night in Central London, but a little man on a rickshaw promised he could take us to them.
So, without hesitation we hopped in and off he cycled, as we squealed with excitement. I think with our combined body weight, that he got quite the workout!
I do remember traveling this way once or twice before in my twenties.
There was one solitary taxi at the rank when we arrived so, as I live South-East and both the girls are South-West, we agreed that we would share the taxi and that I would stay the night with my sister-in-law, Eva.
The Greek God(zilla) was not too amused when I called to tell him this at 3am.
What a dirty stopout.
My twenties were fabulous fun and I loved revisiting them for a night but when I woke up a few hours later, feeling about 45, and the Greek God(zilla) was not by my side and my little boy was not in the next room calling me for a cuddle, I desperately missed my 30-something life.
Although the 30-something hangover, not so much.