Pollyism of the week

Let’s go clubbing,” my daughter said enthusiastically. It took me no time to think before I said, “Excellent! Yes, let’s go clubbing!” Oh, what a time to be alive.

Getting dressed to “go clubbing” when one hasn’t been in a decade was the start of the impossible mission to Mordor. Just like the journey Sam and Frodo made across the places they went through (I can’t remember the names) to chuck the ring into the volcano thingy.

I knew what I wanted to wear, but according to my fashion-forward son of 21, wearing heels would make me look like I was “going to the office”, so my cute DKNY kitten heels were out.

Now I was wearing a cute little jacket, black jeans and Converse. He said I looked great. I felt like I was wearing someone else’s clothes – and I didn’t really know or like that person.

The second stumbling block was my “traumatised” hair. I’m not supposed to use any heat on my locks for at least three months. This, however, does not take into account clubbing. If I used heat on my hair it would fall out, but if I didn’t, I’d look like Diana Ross circa 1984.

Already running late, I lightly dried my hair, then in a mad and impetuous move rubbed hair wax on my hands and slid my fingers through my hair. I hoped for a glossy, sexy wave, but it ended up looking like

I’d bathed my head in margarine. Excellent, Polly.

Clubbing sober is more like a spectator sport. I watched the same behaviour I’d witnessed when I was a little bit younger and a little bit better dressed. There were still pods of gorgeous girls all having fun together. There were still some people standing on the edge of dance floors boogying to their own drum, and there were packs of guys all having a great time, but keeping an eye on their one mate who was incredibly intoxicated, banging on tables and trying to chat up girls who just wanted them to p*** off.

I watched as bar staff and bouncers very nicely but efficiently exited these drunken lads from the bar, and watched as that one girl who didn’t look like a dancer totally nailed it on the dance floor with all the moves.

I lasted until 12.30am, which was something for someone up since 3.30am, but by the time midnight struck I was feeling tired, a little bit chunky, a little bit old and very badly dressed.

As we left, the streets started to fill up and there were lines outside clubs across the road. I marvel at the energy of anyone who goes out at midnight. I don’t understand you, but I worship your alien ability to look good, wear the right shoes and not fall asleep in your tequila shot.

“Let’s go clubbing” is something I’ll ponder before agreeing to in future, and I’m still really annoyed about my ludicrous shoe choice. Peer pressure at my age? Ridic!