A Night On The Tiles

I used to be a bit of a party animal. I remember when I was about eighteen, nineteen, and into my early twenties, I would go out on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights. I feel exhausted just thinking about it. I mean, number 1. How did I afford it?, number 2. What did I wear? And number 3. Was it really that good?

It was all about socialising and trying to get a boyfriend (mostly failing in case you’re wondering). We didn’t drink much, and in fact my friend and I took it in turns to drive, so we weren’t exactly wild and out of control, but we stayed out late - never overnight - however my Mum seemed to think I was doing the Devil’s work. God only knows what she would make of the nightlife antics of today. I’ve just been looking at some Facebook pics of one of my ‘friends’ (much younger than me, but a mum) and I have to confess at feeling a little bit uneasy at what is being published for all to see. (in this case suggestive poses with a male stripper - hey ho)


Anyway, age 22, I got a bit fed up of our local town and occasional forays into Manchester, and wanted to spread my wings, so I went off to work in the South of France staying on and off for 7 or 8 years doing seasonal work, going off to a ski resort once, and once getting a permanent job which sadly didn’t last. Partying was a nightly occurrence on the campsite where I lived/worked and the drinking was more profuse than I had previously experienced so I joined in with gusto. Then I came home and went to work for a tour operator in a new town, we never went out my new girl friends and I, as there really was no where to go and one of us had a young child, so we just took it in turns to go to each other’s houses, make spag bol and drink lots of wine. I must confess to feeling very frustrated and boxed in. Then I went back to live in my home town, and started to go out a bit again, and it was quite nice, seeing all my old cronies and catching up. Then I met my husband and shortly after we married my independent going out ground to a halt and I was quite happy about it. The nightlife of my home town held little appeal, I was much happier on a Friday night snuggled on the sofa, watching TV and sharing a bottle of wine with hubby.


So, last night I went out. Into town. The mad nightlife town with a scary reputation. One of the Mums from school is leaving to go and live in Australia - not on her own, obviously, she is taking the family with her, and she had asked a big crowd of Mums from school and some of her work colleagues to go to a local Spanish restaurant for tapas and then for drinks afterwards. Tapas are nice, but they’re not a meal are they? Anyway, buoyed up by wine, we trooped across the road to an almost deserted cavernous bar. The road is barricaded off at each end at weekend making it pedestrianised, and it takes on the look of a street in Magalluf or Ibiza with young extroverts attempting to seduce you into one of the million or so bars lining either side of the street. The bar we chose used to be a cinema and has gone through various incarnations since, always bar related but under several different names, but always spookily similar inside.


One of the Mums has an amazing amount of energy and drive, and started off the dancing. Before long we were all boogying away hoping we didn’t look too off-message. I love a dance and really let myself go, I truly enjoyed myself - for a while . The bar filled up, not manically but we decided to move on to another little bar, made from some tiny house it seemed up a cobbled side street. It could probably have been very nice, but it was packed to the rafters so it was difficult to be sure. The clientele were a bit varied (I’m being kind), it seemed to be the kind of place where old guys (probably even older than me) go in the hope of pulling some much younger, attractive woman; the drunker the women get the more likely the ambition of the older guy seems to be. Everyone seemed borderline paralytic. I couldn’t wait to get home. We Mums all agreed we were very fortunate not to have to endure this week in week out - as if it were torture. Actually it would be torture if indeed you did do this every week. We were similarly universal in our appreciation for our husbands. We got taxis very easily and thankfully set off en route to our sanctuaries and to plead with our other halves never to leave us!!!
I can’t wait to get back to my snuggly sofa, Saturday night TV and a bottle of wine with the man I love.