After a brief discussion, we decide we will go to Hix in Soho, for our friend’s disco/rave birthday party.
Rave? It’s been so long since I’ve seen or heard the word “rave” that I’m not quite sure what it means any more. In the old days it meant a partyload of people smiling in a glazed way, shuffling to an intense but inane beat. Is that still the case?
My husband says he definitely will not dance and laughs out loud at the idea. I won’t either, but have the excellent excuse that I am wearing compression tights and bandages 24/7, on both legs, after having my thread veins treated. I feel about as sexy as an incontinent great granny.
As we are getting ready my husband reminds me that he won’t be dancing or drinking and he certainly won’t be staying late. “An hour at the most.” You’re such a laugh, so fun to be with, I think with a cartoon speech bubble coming out of my mouth. When we first met, people, including me, were amazed by his dancing skills. My friends lined up to dance with him. I could never keep up with his pace — he was like an extra on Saturday Night Fever, minus the flares, while I idled beside him in the manner of a sloth.
Having said that, I’m a bore too. When I discovered that the rave/disco started at 10pm, my usual bedtime, I wrote an e-mail to the birthday girl moaning on about the compression bandages, how unsexy I felt, etc, but quickly changed my mind when I realised people were making an effort to come from Cornwall.
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We are waiting for the babysitter, already yawning at 9.15. My husband is wondering whether to cancel her, because he wants to watch football.
We arrive in Soho absurdly early and have to drive around pretending to look for a parking space to kill time. We walk through the doors on the dot of 10 to find that there are only two men sitting in the party space. My husband carries on with the charade of not drinking and orders a glass of water.
People begin to turn up about an hour later. And soon I am swigging my large vodka, chatting to some friends, liking the music but not abandoning myself to the rhythm. I’m just about ready to leave when I see a circle of people on the dance-floor. My husband is in the middle doing his Saturday Night Fever routine, with three tall blonds and a short ginger.
I am aghast, astounded and amazed. When we do eventually leave, he says he drank three glasses of wine and a brandy and that he could have stayed all night.