Believe it or not, I was young once.
I used to go out, and I danced the night away. I partied with colleagues on a school night and was at my desk not-too-bright, but early the next morning. A specific pair of skin-tight red trousers was legendary in certain quarters and single-handedly kept me in gin and tonics.
Sadly as is true for all of us, I grew up. My body grew weary. Then I had children and my weariness became a permanent state.
Nights out these days are few and far between. They involve clock-watching to ensure getting back in time for the babysitter. The luxury of the hangover lie-in does not exist with small children. Snuggling on the sofa with a glass of red and a DVD is just so much more appealing somehow.
This Saturday, however, I'm doing it again. I'm getting glammed up in a new frock, and I've purchased new shoes. I'm booked into the hairdresser's in the morning. The thing is, it's not dinner and dancing at a top London nightspot - it's the much more difficult social minefield of the office Christmas party (or Winter Celebration, as they are insisting on calling it - that's a whole different post right there - I mean, FFS!). Shoved into a soulless room with colleagues I barely know, let along like, eating a mass-catered Christmas dinner and trying not to drink too much so I don't fall over in the new heels.
Sounds appealing, doesn't it? Yet somehow I am ridiculously excited at the prospect.
Keep your fingers crossed for me. It can't possibly end well.