Dare to Be Square.

I definitely have been writing more, but procrastination is a wonderful thing. This week I tidied out my office, which I have been meaning to do for ages and was, of course, a good way of actually putting off doing any writing. Which is what I am doing now, kidding myself that making myself post on the blog is a way of limbering up the writing muscle, a sort of pre-race work-out.  Before you know it I'll be powering down the writing strait, a regular pulp fiction Usain Bolt. 

Well, at least I am writing.

Of course, my Sunday morning enthusiasm is not helped by the foggy head I have after a night out with my best friend. It wasn't exactly wild dancing on tables in a dive in New York, more a gentle lean up against a bar, followed by dinner at a local restaurant. These days my head gets foggy from three glasses of wine and a digestif. Well, we are both pretty middle aged. Actually, I'm a lot more middle aged than she is, despite the fact that she is 12 years closer to official retirement age than I am. She'd be away dancing on every table she could find, if I wasn't such a middle-aged kill-joy.

But the thing is, I like being middle-aged. I like the comfortable evenings at home on the sofa with the mad dog and the sly cat and "Celebrity Masterchef" on iPlayer. The joy of middle age means no pressure to get out there and "Enjoy Yourself!"  For me, that rarely co-incided with the purgatory of the local disco, where the opening notes of the slow set were a signal to hide in the toilets, away from the shame that none of the sweaty youths out there had bestowed their favour on you.

I never actually enjoyed being young -  I hated the weekly cattle call at the disco or bar. You'd go through the routine of getting glad-ragged and be-rouged, spending ages deciding exactly what outfit minimised your worst parts and accentuated your best bits. As it turned out, I had no idea of which was which: I wore polo necks and short skirts when it should have been the other way around. Eyes would be lined and lips glossed and your hair would be sprayed til it could have walked around on its own.  (It was the era of Seriously Big Hair, which I gather is back in a Big Way). You'd then traipse down to the bar or disco and admire the array of boys from a good safe distance, as actual contact was pretty unlikely. You'd dance around with a few of your mates when a suitably appropriate song came on and almost inevitably go home on your own.  Occasionally one of the boys would get slaughtered, fall up against you and hope that you took the hint. Alas, I was spectacularly bad at getting the hint and usually spent the evening looking out for the quirky cool bloke who wasn't remotely interested.  Now, before, this starts sounding like a karoke rendition of "At Seventeen", I did have a lot of fun back in the day, but it was rarely a result of a night out at the disco.

I also hated the notion that 'fun' was to be had at a concert or gig in a muddy field half way down the country, where the accommodation was a tent pitched in the mire and the toilet facilities would have shocked a developing nation. Several miles away - or so it seemed - was a dark blur which turned out to be the stage upon which, if you really squinched up your eyes and concentrated, was an even blurrier thing which was the band. That's if you could see through the pouring rain. I was inevitably homesick, cold, pissed off and cranky, mostly all at the same time. If this was fun, you could have it.

Give me an indoor seated concert anytime and only, these days, if the taxi can drop me off at the door.  Or better, still, a quiet night out with a friend.