Finally got out into the heart of the London social scene last night. Yeah I showed those youngsters in their tight jeans, quaffed hair and smug coolness that there’s no substitute for experience, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks etc etc….
I could see their looks, feel their jealous gaze fall upon me, as they headed out to the various clubs. I could see the hope in their eyes that when they’d reach my age they’d look even half as cool as I did, catching the fifth last tube home. On my own. Bloodshot eyes. Yawning. Thinking longingly about the cup of tea I’d promised myself when I got back.
Yep. It’s happened. Finally. I’m old. You see, I was happily catching the fifth last tube home. In fact, I’d have made it earlier had I not found it so hard to convince the door staff I didn’t require the stamp of a blue fish on my wrist to allow re-entry, that I actually had no intention of returning, I was done for the night.
There was an episode of Homelands awaiting me at home. I’d only watched one of my allotted daily ration of two episodes and the previous one had ended on such a knife edge I had to tear myself away from the tv in order to go out in the first place!
Of course, had I been anticipating the company of a beautiful woman then my attachment to Damien Lewis would not have been so keen. Alas however, I suspected/feared/knew that this would not be the case. My evening involved a small group of ten of us saying goodbye to one of our number as she returns to her native France, after having spent the last twelve years working in London. It was a relatively tame night as you may have gathered, especially when I reveal that most of the others had left even before I did.
There was some food and some dancing and the overall atmosphere of the club we were in leant itself to a sense of still being on holiday, which of course I still was. As I sit here now though that feeling has evaporated. It’s approaching midnight on Sunday and after a two week break it’s back to school in the morning. Just a training day but anything that involves setting an alarm for 6.30am can not be considered good, nor healthy. I can at least get all my planning done and possibly some of the marking I neglected over the last fortnight, ahead of the nutters, sorry, students, return on Tuesday.
And so the countdown begins, wishing my life away, until the next break, in five weeks time when I can once again turn my mind to things that I really want to do.
Like staying out past midnight.