It occurred to me recently, when I was out dancing with some old Eastbourne Theatres cohorts, that we had been bouncing around that same nightclub together since before most of its current regulars had even been born. This may seem like a depressing realisation, but actually I felt quite proud that my urge to boogie - born in the seedy haunts of my hometown - is as strong now as it was eighteen years ago. If anything, apart from a brief lull during the London commuting years, my stamina for staying out all night has improved as time has gone on.
In view of this longstanding commitment to the cause, I feel some sort of recognition or reward is in order - at the very least the right to dance on tables if I want to. On Friday night at Carnivalesque, I was denied this post-30 clubber's prerogative by an utterly humourless bouncer, and thought, "if only I had brought my own podium!" Seriously, there must be a market for a handbag-sized fold-out platform that could be whipped out on such an occasion - whenever the urge to 'show the young 'uns how it's done' rears its ugly head. And oh, how it does. I wasn't the only in need of such a stage either - in fact my abortive attempt triggered a supportive mini-rebellion among several other indignant women of a similar age. Needless to say, the bouncer was not amused, but then he wouldn't even let someone have a little snooze in the corner, so dancing on tables was never going to be an option. Good on you for trying girls, but next time we're just going to have to bring our own podiums.
Photo (not of me) by meeware on Flickr.