Dancing

I made it! Another Birthday down. I am now the very proud owner of a beautiful stainless steel Dualit digital kitchen radio (from Husband and sister-in-law) and very elegant sky blue Le Creuset teapot (from friend).

You know you’re cracking on a spot when you can’t wait to test out your new teapot. The Husband and I spent a good half hour waxing lyrical about its beautiful symmetry, manly handle, non-drip pouring action and how bold and complex tea brewed in it tastes. This discussion was held to a backdrop of Radio 2 wafting out my sweet kitchen radio (again excited about a kitchen radio playing Sunday Love Songs, not dynamic boost sound system with woofers and tweeters pumping out the latest dance tunes.)

Despite the Sunday morning domestic bliss I felt rather crapulent. Excellent word, means feeling rather poorly due to overindulgence of, or relating to alcohol. My crapulence levels were at an all time high. Of course I should have known about the ferocity of the Aging Hangover – I’ve seen the older and wiser Husband appear the vision of a dog’s bollocks for an entire week.

But I had felt compelled to go out dancing. Being back in the Big City, I thought I might cut a bit of rug to prove I’m not at the geriatric state of Horlicks and knitting before bed. And so we had left the Husband at home on Saturday night and hit the tiles.

Being without Husband and with Birthday in sight and one or two tequilas in me I was feeling a spot gregarious. Waiting at the bar I started to chatting to a very clean cut, young lad in ‘Geek’ glasses - the sort that science nerds used to wear that have now been adopted by graphic designers with ironic moustaches:

Me: Nice Gogs. I see you are channelling the Geek Chic movement, very Clark Kent.

Lad: Oh, thanks. I look like a nerd? Clark Kent wasn’t what I was going for.

Me: I like the Geek look. I popped the lenses out of my 3D cinema glasses and wear them round the house in the spirit of a nerdy secretary. Are those for prescription or fashion use?

Lad: Fashion, although they don’t usually attract attention in clubs like this.

Me: Clubs like this?

Lad: Straight bars. [Clark Kent takes off glasses revealing rather feminine features – not a facial hair insight.]

Me: Ah. [Now clocking subtle bosom beneath suit jacket] Did I mention I’m married. Very chatty, Birthday at midnight.

Lad(dette): Really, I’m recently divorced. Where’s your PARTNER then? [Scanning room and giving me the Glad Eye in one tactical move.]

Me: Ah, my HUSBAND is at home looking after the baby. [No need to mention that the baby is my nephew].

And so we wrapped up our little conversation and Clark or rather Clara Kent disappeared into the crowd only to return seconds later with a Birthday beer in hand and a demand for my phone number. These are the sort of dilemmas we never dealt with in Life Skills at school, how to appear neither homophobic or up for a lesbian dalliance. In a compromise I reiterated that I was still happily married but if Husband should die in some freak accident Clara Kent would be in with a chance [a little white lie is an occasional necessity] and so I left the club up one beer and a girl’s number.

Nice to know that despite the advancing years, I’ve still got it.