You know you have reached middle age when you talk about ‘going dancing’ – as opposed to ‘going clubbing’ or just plain old ‘going out’ (because dancing will, like, obviously be involved.)
So because I am old, I went DANCING. With the girls. In a shirt skirt and high heels and bare arms. And not enough by way of coats.
It was slightly different, of course – we had dinner and prosecco first and talked about artists’ retreats and babies, but let me tell you that when we hit that dance floor we TORE IT UP.
And got so excited that I’m afraid to report we just started screaming.