A night on the town.

Despite the fact that I woke up this morning feeling like I'd been doused in honey and glued to a hornet's nest, I feel great.  My mouth is as dry as if I ate a pack of Marlborough's, Keith Moon's playing a virtuosic solo in my head, and I may be having an out-of-body experience as we speak, but I can't bring myself to complain.  The reason for my undue exuberance? 

I went out last night.

It took two glasses of Bailey's Irish Cream and a best friend who claims English as her second language when someone utters the word 'no,' but I did it.  We had planned this a week ago but true to form my nerves soon got the better of me and, by Friday night, I was on the phone trying to cancel. 

She was having none of it.

Yesterday afternoon, she arrived on my doorstep decked out in her Saturday night best.  Ignoring my protests as I let her in, she pushed past me into my bedroom, demanding to see my latest quarry from eBay, (I'm a bit of a vintage fashion collector).  Throwing three dresses onto the end of my bed, she commanded me to try each of them on and report to her in the hallway for inspection.  I obeyed, and we eventually decided upon the pink, polka dotted, a-line sixties dress I had originally intended to wear before I got an attack of hermit-itis.  My bestie is one of those people who believes in imbibing a bit of dutch courage before embarking on a night out, and although this is not something I would normally endorse, on this particular occasion, it did wonders.

I arrived at our chosen venue with minimal expectations, based on previous experience, and decided to have a good time the only way I know how; by acting like no one was watching.  Our laughter, and, I like to think, my 'ribald' sense of humour, attracted like-minded people of both genders and we were soon the most happening table in the tavern.  I received some favourable comments on my dress, and one on my singing by a gentleman who happened to catch my You Tube vlog, (suddenly I'm not quite as embarrassed to have picked a country song), and despite the fact that I make Elaine from Seinfeld look like the chick from Saturday Night Fever, I even indulged in a spot of dancing.  Did I kiss any boys?  No.  Were phone numbers exchanged?  No.  Did I have to go home at nine-thirty because I came down with food poisoning after eating three potato cakes of questionable quality from a dodgy fish and chip shop earlier in the day? 

Yes, but despite the fact that I spent much of the rest of the night practising my scales in a tiled porcelain studio, it still goes down as one of the best nights I've had in a long time.  I talked, I laughed, and other people responded in kind and you want to know something else?  I'm doing it again next Saturday night. 

Sans the potato cakes, of course.      

Party plan.

I will be celebrating my fortieth birthday this June.  My regular readers will be familiar with my chronic shyness, and would naturally therefore assume that it would prevent me from doing anything to commemorate the occasion, other than watch 80's teen movies, screaming 'You can do better, you stupid cow!' at my TV with Bailey's Irish Cream fuelled fervour.  I would have assumed the same thing not so long ago, but a friend of mine said something to me last week that brought about an epiphany.

We were discussing the way some women treat social outings as man-hunting exhibitions.  They put on their most dazzling camouflage paint, slip into their shimmering, semi-backless safari garb and head out on a mission to capture their quarry, (I know, I mercilessly kicked the crap out of a guy for using the very same word in a dating 'advice' site a while back; I'm using it in a different context, and I can't think of another word that fits the hunting motif I'm running with - shut up).  I was never comfortable with it, but for some reason I just assumed (there's that horrible word again) that this was what I was supposed to do, given my age and lack of marital status.  The fact that I'm not at all interested in marriage did nothing to deter me from following the same carcass-laden track whenever I ventured out into the neon jungle, and I always returned empty handed.  Despite the music, the bright lights and the abundance of alcoholic beverages at my disposal, it never occurred to me that I was supposed to have fun so, invariably, I didn't, and consequently just stopped going out altogether.

Thus, getting plastered and watching DVDs was looking like an extremely attractive way to kick off my fourth decade on the planet, until my friend Patrick gave me an unintentional come-to-your-senses slap across the face with the following words:

Why does it have to be about men; can't you just have a good time?

It was a bit radical, but I decided to go with it, in my own inimitable fashion.  To psych myself up, I started cruising eBay for going-out clothes, it won't shock you to know that I don't have many, and before long I had bought three dresses, two necklaces and a pair of the most gorgeous vintage shoes I'd seen since I visited a pop art exhibition eight years ago.  Then I went onto Google Images and saved a picture to show my hairdresser of Lily Allen sporting a beautiful layered bob that would set off the nod to the sixties look I envisaged.  All this planning worked a treat, and now I'm as excited about my fortieth birthday as I was about my thirteenth.  It might seem anal to you, but believe me...

...this is me relaxed!