A Life Less Ordinary

Lyndylooloopops

 

To Lyndylooloopops on the 33^rd anniversary of becoming a mum…

You…

• Gave up more than I will ever know, including your career as a textile designer, to raise and give us both the best start in life possible.
• Spent hours teaching me how to read, by patiently recreating sentences using home-made ‘flash cards’ from cornflake boxes.
• Promised yourself when I was born that you would always tell me I was beautiful and would never criticise me. This has given me unparalleled self-confidence and only hope I can instil the same confidence in my own children.
• Inspired and encouraged my interest to pursue a career in fashion from an early age. And because of you, I knew exactly what I always wanted to do from the age of eight. Not many people can say that.
• Know me better than anyone else and continue to teach me important life lessons. The most recent being that ‘people are more important than things’.
• Bought me my first Prada bag when I was 18. And have even more shoes than me (an impressive collection).
• Should be welcomed by Fidel Castro every time you go to Cuba, considering you’re probably their most frequent visitor and investor in local tourism.
• Are still my first phone call when I have any news. And my first text when I land in a foreign country.
• Have already insisted that your grandchildren must never, ever, refer to you as ‘Granny’. Even though the mere hint of any grandchildren is a long way off.
• Always stood by me, giving me the confidence to believe in myself and rise above the bullies who made secondary school a miserable place to be.
• Had to he held back by dad from dropping everything and rushing to our side when we had our car crash in Arizona. Instead you arranged for us to convalesce at Lucy’s in Miami (safe in the knowledge we were at least with family).
• Taught me how to be frugal and economical when it came to day to day purchases, and instead save the cash for the things that are important in life; nice houses, holidays, shoes and handbags.
• Have extraordinary organisational skills and love to host amazing parties. Be it catering for a summer garden party for 50 or one of your many festive lunches in the run up to Christmas. Huntingdon Road parties are known to be legendary due to the effort you and Dad put in (especially when you get a noise pollution complaint from the council).
• Have a wonderful collection of original Biba that you saved up for as a teenager and are slowly donating to my own mini collection.
• Never minded that your home became the weekend ‘drop in centre’ for noisy teenage sleepovers and late night post-clubbing munchies all the way through the 90’s.
• Taught me from an early age that being different was a good thing. This was a tough lesson; no one wants to stand out when you’re a young teenager, but thanks to you, I’d sooner stand out in the crowd than blend in.
• Know more about fashion and the latest trends than I do, even though my career means I’m immersed in the industry and always working 12 months ahead.
• Always make sure we have an amazing Christmas, ensuring the fridge is fully stocked, the champagne is flowing and the beds made for the constantly changing guests, waifs and strays you welcome into your home every year.
• Selflessly put your life, including your job, on hold for nearly a year to move in with and look after Granny when she had cancer. That time you spent with her meant more to her than we will ever know.
• Are a caring, generous and deeply loyal friend. This sometimes means you get hurt, but you have always taught me it is better to be generous with your time and love than to be selfish.
• Are beautiful, very intelligent, have a wicked sense of humour and an adventurous spirit that I like to think I’ve inherited.
• Maybe don’t know this, but all my friends think you’re the coolest mum (and I do too).
• Are someone I would have loved to have met before you were my mother.

You are an inspiration to what I can only hope to be one day.

All my love, AD xx

 

 

 

Fit For a Daisy

On 19 July, I move from Battersea, SW11 to Dulwich, SE22, marking the end of an era for this Daisy.

There will be tears and there will be an emotional post (you can guarantee that), but there is also a lot of excitement as I enter this new stage of my life and move to an area I have only ever been to six times.  extremely excited to be nesting, my credit card and cardboard city bedroom is testament to that.

One thing I am extremely sad and frustrated to leave (aside from my friends and brother of course) will be bootcamp, which I attribute to the only reason I can allow myself to stuff my face, nearly guilt free.   

After discovering Fit For A Princess (terrible name, but hardcore trainers) four years ago, the intensive two week, 11-day, 75-minute bootcamps quickly came part of my daily routine. Flitting between Clapham Common and Wandsworth Common to maximise training opportunities, I signed up to back to back bootcamps throughout the first few spring and summers.

And then when I got really into it, I put myself through two entire winters of training in pitch black mornings, under layers of Heattech, slipping on ice as we ran between commons, nearly getting frost bite on my finger tips as we did press ups on the frozen ground and not being able to warm up, even after a 10 minute hot shower.

Ahhh, how I miss those days.

But not only ia FFAP utterly shape changing and works wonders for my fitness, I have also been lucky enough to make some great friends, girls who use bootcamp just as I do; live hard, play hard. We meet for champagne brunches and spend nights dancing on tables, just as much as we spend our early mornings grunting over burpes, press up relays and tricep dips, willing the instructor to count us down.

As I spend my last few days cycling to bootcamp across Clapham Common this next week, I’ll look back on how I have watched spring turn into summer, into autumn, into winter and then back into spring, and I’ll be thankful for how these morning sessions help to push that reset button each morning; no matter what happened at work the day before, or what drama I have to face once I get into the office, this next hour is mine.

Watch us kicking ass here.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=10150277423915795

 

 

 

 

Dear Daddy...

  

 

You…

• Were a bit of a rebel in your youth and got expelled from school, yet still went on to become a very successful businessman (and dad…)
• Took over the family business the year I was born and since built it up into a mini empire that you should always look back on and be incredibly proud of.
• Have always worked so very hard to ensure we had the best life, in turn installing a strong work ethic in both of us (I don’t care if you worry you worked too hard when I was little; it made the time we spent with you even more special).
• Never really got angry with us, even when Ed spilt a cup of coffee over the VCR and flooded the house by bringing the garden hose into the living room.
• Were always so very patient when I was learning how to read, write and do maths, even when you were tired after a long day at work.
• Always organised imaginative and wonderful games at our birthday parties that had us squealing with delight, and me having a tantrum at some point because I didn’t win all of the prizes.
• (Appeared to have) a relaxed attitude to me going out with my friends aged 15, you imposed a curfew and instead taught me that it was about having a two-way trust. I never abused that and only hope I can be as fair on my own teenage daughter.
• Were apparently very nervous when I went out on my first date, but never let on, meaning I felt independent and not smothered. And home by 11pm!
• Taught me to drive on an old airfield when I was 16, even though you held onto the handbrake all the time.
• Were very disappointed with me when I had a mini-car crash aged 17. And since then I have only ever wanted to make you proud of me.
• Had tears in your eyes as you waved me off at Heathrow on my gap year and wrote me an email every single day, with a different song title in the subject each time. Being 8,000 miles away from home, especially when Grandma died, meant more to me than you know.
• Know more about music than even Stu does. And still love to go to gigs and discover new bands (PS: bagsie the Wurlitzer!!)
• Have more energy than anyone I know of even my age, still row with the same crew you did aged 16 and still hold the best parties.
• Gave me the twinkle in my ‘eye’ for art and design and inspired my love for Pop Art.
• Always inspire me to stand back, reflect and look at things from other people’s point of view, as well as ‘not eat an elephant whole’.
• Taught me it is always better to leave a party (and anything in life) before the end. Something I always try to do.
• Always offer calming, well thought-out and considered advice when I’m worried or stressed.
• Say its better to travel hopefully, than to arrive.
• Gave me your eyes, strong jaw and high cheekbones, but thankfully not your hair…

Happy father’s day, Daddy-O; you rock.

All my love, AD xx

 

 

 

A Tractor For All Generations

 

Last Saturday my oldest friend C took advantage of a holiday vacated home and held a final hurrah at the house she grew up in; Farmfield. Her father, the legendary Bobby G, sadly passed away last summer and her mother, the glamorous Parisian Françoise, has accepted that Farmfield is too large for just her to be rattling around in and is shortly moving to a smaller home on the other side of Cambridge.

Farmfield is a stunning Georgian family home, with a beautifully landscaped garden, a koi carp pond and fields of barley to look out onto. It was Bobby G’s castle, his manor, his life and work, and, aside from the girls, his pride and joy.

The selling of Farmfield is not only the end of an era, but a poignant moment; Bobby G and Francoise were life long dear friends of my parents and I split my time growing up with C and her little sister N, between both our houses which were only a few hundred meters down the road from each other.

The most fun was had on the dirt track at the back of the house across the barley fields, where we would spend hours recreating Hollywood blockbusters with Bobby G’s camcorder. I’ll never forgive N for recording over ‘TopBike’ and ‘GirtonVille Horror’, if only to have been able to embarrass C and show them at her wedding.

C was obsessed with Jaws, and other shockingly bad 1980’s horror movies such as Amityville Horror. Before we discovered boys, insecurities, calories and cellulite, we would hole up in the den most weekends, scaring ourselves silly watching terrible special effects, indulging in pizza, homemade waffles and tubs of Häagen-Dazs.

As we grew older, the irony of C’s catholic school upbringing was never lost on me and to this day we will never know if Bobby G suspected, or even knew of, her scaling the ivy at the back of the house late at night, to meet Alex Baggaley and co. at the bottom of the garden for midnight walks… and the rest…. Or the party that ended up in a squirty cream fight and frantic industrial cleaning the next day before C’s parents returned from France. I like to think he was secretly proud of her adventurous spirit, thinking she was a chip off the old block, even if he would never admit it himself.

In more recent years, festive drinks at Farmfield always guaranteed a headache on Christmas Day morning, with the perfect hosts; Françoise bustling around the kitchen magicing up incredible canapés and Bobby G making sure everyone had a bottomless glass of champagne. Bobby G loved his music and early on in the evening, everyone would be dancing in the living room to anything from The Killers to The Kinks on his iTunes, way before digital music was accepted by anyone of his generation.

Sitting around my parent’s kitchen table the night after last week’s party, nursing a sore head of my own, we were swapping stories of Farmfield, my parents tickled at the thought of us now enjoying the same experiences they had a whole generation earlier; drunk adults dancing in their stilettos around the living room and ignoring the kids peeking through the banisters. Which lead to my dad confessing one particularly memorable evening the night before we were due to go on a family holiday to Cornwall. The red wine was flowing in excess at Farmfield and the next morning, after no doubt staggering back down the Huntingdon Road at some ungodly hour to release the babysitter, my poor mum ended up having to drive the six hours to Cornwall, with a very hung-over dad (who, by my calculations, couldn’t have been much older than I am now) and two kids in the back.

But what I most enjoyed about The Last Party, was watching C’s two children; E (7) and O (4), whom Bobby G doted over, enjoying the same run of the garden as we had all those years ago when C’s husband M reversed the small garden tractor out of the garage and the kids squealed with delight piling in the back of the trailer and being driven around the garden. At a top speed of say, 2mph.

C has promised to dig out the exact same photo of her 7^th birthday with the four of us piled in the back; the biggest grins on our faces and our whole lives ahead of us. I can’t wait to see it again and relive those happy times.

Bobby G; a legend in your own time. You gave us these memories, this one’s for you.

The end. The start.

Today my brother’s girlfriend moved into the first house I bought five years ago.

Tomorrow I hand over the deeds to my brother.

The day after tomorrow, I hope to exchange on the first property I’m buying with The Boy. The first of many, I hope. The start of our new life, I’m sure.

Today is the end of an era I'm sad to see go, but tomorrow will be the start of a new one I'm excited to visit. 

Learning to live with regrets

There are little things we regret like eating six Cadbury’s crème eggs in the space of two hours (yes, this has actually happened), or generous actions we learn to regret when we have been taken advantage of by those we loved. Emotional regrets teach us to not get caught up in other people’s shitstorms, serving us with knowledge of how to save face and pain along the way. And frivolous regrets end up with unworn shoes in the wardrobe.

But then there are bigger regrets that we have no choice but to live with; negative relationships that went on for too long with emotionally draining men who didn’t accept you for the wonderful being you are.

We all have choices to make and our motivation differs along the way; be it for love or loyalty, sheer greediness when it comes to crème eggs, or simply plain naivety.

I try to live my life regret free; we are here to make mistakes along the way and I figure it would be pretty boring if we were all perfect. However, looking back, I would like to have the chance to do a few things differently. Yet it’s only in the dead of the night, or on a tube journey when you swear you caught a glimpse of an ex-boyfriend, that you find yourself asking; what if some of those ‘big’ decisions have irreversibly changed the course of your life?

My hairdresser pointed out last night he has “always been impressed with the way you pick yourself up and get straight back out there after every failed relationship AD…” Ok, so I wasn’t very impressed with the “failed” comment; I like to see each and every relationship as adding to the rich tapestry of what makes me ‘me’...  But I’ll give myself credit where credit is due; optimism can be a rare trait. Especially for someone like me who has been around the block a few times when it comes to scraping the barrel of men in London.

The way I see it, why should I allow an ex-boyfriend cast me with shadows of doubt and insecurity, denying me a happy future with someone who might just be around the corner? Someone who I might be missing out on meeting, if I were to still be sitting around moping for 'what could have been'.

Girls like me spend our 20's telling ourselves; “we’re having too much fun to want to settle down…” but suddenly that doesn’t quite cut the mustard once you reach 30. And now I’ve reached that milestone, I inevitability compare my own situation with that of my friends, wondering in the dead of the night if I should have perhaps ‘settled’. Gulp.

Which then ultimately arrives me at the place where I wonder if my eternal optimism is flawed. Maybe I have missed the boat... Maybe I missed the opportunity.

That said; instead of sharing a bathroom with wet towels on the floor, toothpaste with no lid, loo seats always up and having to remember to pick up dinner on the way home, I have a forceful independence, a packed diary that anyone lacking in a social life would be envious of, a floor to ceiling wardrobe that is mine (all mine!) and most importantly, I can do whatever the sod I want to do, whenever I want to.

And suddenly it’s occurred to me; maybe it isn’t the ‘emotionally unavailable’, ‘socially inept’ and ‘confused’ boys myself and my friends have become so accustomed to blaming it on. Maybe it’s me… I am the main decision maker after all; I love my life and it’s going to take someone pretty special to get me to give this all up.

Until then, I’m off to fill my wardrobe with expensive shoes, dance until dawn, eat cheese on toast for supper and go on holiday to far flung exotic places with the girls; for these are the glory days I will one day look back on, sighing with regret that they will be no more.

In this decade I have...

• Graduated with a first class honours in fashion.
• Craned my neck looking at the New York skyscrapers for the first time.
  
• Moved to London, where the streets are paved with gold.
• Started my career in the best way possible.
• Fallen out of love with my childhood sweetheart.
• Travelled around the world with my life in a backpack.
• Lived in another country (momentarily).
• Nearly died in a car crash. But have a great scar to tell the tale.
• Got back on the career ladder.
• Turned blonde. And since then, even blonder.
• Gone on a blind date and fallen back in love.
• Bought my first house with my little brother.
• Secured a senior position for one of the most dynamic retail brands.
• Took my first big overseas business trip, and since then many more.
• Learnt how to say please and thank you in Japanese.
• Sung karaoke until 5am and then presented to the chairman at 9am.
  
• Regained my freedom from a negative relationship.
• Become a godmother, again.
• Supported a friend through a divorce and watched my best friend walk down the aisle.
• Made some incredible friendships, but also culled some in the process.
• Faced challenges every day, but realised I'm still learning, so it's all right...
  
• Learnt how to be happy and how to love myself.
• Sat on the beach in Hawaii, watching the sunset whilst sipping Mai Tai’s, realising I have the rest of my life to do what ever I want to do and there is no rush whatsoever...
  

 

 

 

There are many worlds

I love learning new things and today I learnt about the Many-worlds Interpretation.I won’t go into exactly about I learnt about this (as it is neither interesting nor high-brow), but this particular theory was something that caught my attention, enough search on Wikipedia.

 

In layman's terms, the Many-worlds Interpretation offers the reasoning that there a very large—perhaps infinite—number of universes, and everything that could possibly have happened in our past, but didn't, has occurred in the past of some other universe.

 

The eternally optimistic and romantic side of me has always believed in destiny; so as you can imagine, I fell in love with this theory. The thought that the alternate choices and decisions we make in life, aren’t totally lost and forgotten, but they do actually happen. Just unfortunately in a way we can’t ever experience.

Often I find myself retrospectively (introspectively?) thinking about all the decisions that have shaped my life. So after learning about the Many-worlds Interpretation, this got me thinking even more about pathways that have shaped my life thus far.

 

Had I not taken my English teacher's advice at aged 15 and made the incredibly mature (for someone who was always an average student) decision to study the International Baccalaureate, instead of taking the path well trodden of A-Levels and many free periods in the common room, I perhaps wouldn't have been offered an unconditional place at art college, one year early, and I would have instead had to stay in Cambridge completing an art and design foundation course. Who knows what that year would have brought, but one thing is for sure, I would certainly have missed out on a great year in Newcastle, living next-door to Ade; who has since become a constant and reliable friend throughout my life, and my final year living with the ever fabulous, inspirational and darling, Miss Shoe, who I adore.

 

Had I not gone to The Mill Pond on that particular evening all those years ago, I perhaps wouldn't have met the boy who then became my boyfriend for seven years. At this single point of my life, and an age I easily imagined back then that I would be married with children, I look back on this period with a certain amount of regret and sadness. Spending seven of my most formative and influential years with one boy perhaps wasn’t the wisest of decisions. That said, the years since ending what only developed into a destructive relationship, have truly been the best of my life and even though they haven’t quite played out as I’d imagined (a constant flurry of different boyfriends and dates), I wouldn’t change one minute.

 

Had I continued with my first job at that shambles of a PR agency when I first moved to London at aged 21, and not gone against everything my parents had taught me (“never quit”, especially after only two weeks…), I would have foregone two years working at one of the most dynamic brands of it’s time. I would have missed out on some of the best friendships of my life, laughing until I cried, meeting incredible people and one hell of a CV that has since only proved to carve the pathway for the rest of my career.

Had I not followed my heart, gone against everything else my parents taught me and chosen to walk away from my first job for a years travelling around the world, I not only would have avoided a near-fatal car crash in the Arizona desert, but I wouldn’t have spent three months working in Sydney and I definitely wouldn’t have met Miss Mara, who has been a constant, reliant and amazing friend ever since. I also wouldn’t have as many stamps in my passport and a scar on my arm from said car crash. But that’s beside the point.

 

Had I been too proud to let my more-experienced-in-buying-property mother help us house hunt (after we had exhausted all Victorian two beds in SW11), we perhaps wouldn’t have stepped foot through our front door, and I definitely wouldn’t have met Dixie on that cold February morning. We wouldn’t have bonded over two bottles of Pinot Grigio and I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to meet all of her lovely friends and brother, have wicked house parties and an amazing holiday in Hawaii.

 

All in all, I consider myself lucky in the hand that life has dealt me, but there are a few tweaks that wouldn’t go amiss. Show me someone who doesn’t feel this way though. The grass sometimes seems greener on the other side, which sometimes makes it hard not to consider some decisions as ‘regrets’, rather than ‘lessons’, but as my father always said; “it is always better to travel hopefully, than to ever arrive’. Wise words.

Living on top of London

Last weekend was a strange, and a little unsettling, weekend. I am still undecided as to why it was quite so unsettling, maybe because I have spent the weekend with various friends; all at very different life stages to myself and it made me think a lot about where I am in my life.

I have realised I am guilty of being too reflective and spending far too much time looking around at everyone else, evaluating their life, comparing it to my own and wondering why our lives are so different, rather than considering what is right for me to be doing at this moment in time. Although that on it’s own is easier said than done.

Friday night I met up with a dear friend who is now happily married to a wonderful guy and living in suburbia. Her life is a stark change to only a few years back when we cruised the bars of SW11, dancing on tables and stumbling home with a bag of chips in one hand and our high heels in the other, then spending the morning comatose on the sofa, watching Hollyoaks, sipping Lucozade and munching toast. Our most recent meeting was unfortunately a quick one, due to her long commute, and consisted of a few glasses of wine whilst we dissected various aspects of my love life, then laughed hysterically at stories of ovulation tests, demands put on husbands during attempts to get pregnant and the various sexual positions one has to get oneself into, to aid fertilisation post-coital activity.

Saturday I met another wonderful friend for coffee, which turned into a very long brunch, followed by more coffee. This time we dissected her love life. Selfishly, I admit this friend is my constant; the one I can rely on, the one I consider myself to be most similar to, and someone who really does understand me. She ‘gets’ the momentary freak-out’s, the feeling of the ticking of the clock, the questions I ask myself in the dead of night, yet at the same time we share the same pickiness and have both confessed that we actually quite like our beautiful flats, perfectly done the way WE want them and have admitted that having someone else around would only get in the way. And, besides, there is no way we’d give up half the wardrobe space.

Saturday evening and I was invited to my first house party in years, by my new friends. I love making new friends, especially in London where it is so hard to meet interesting people. As yet, we’re not used to seeing each other in ‘proper’ clothing or makeup; we meet most mornings to throw ourselves around Clapham Common at 6am, in what has affectionately been coined ‘bootycamp’. I was clearly out of practise in the ways of the house party; turning up in ridiculously high heels, leather miniskirt, silk tank top (white – big mistake) and a bottle of champagne. Safe to say I’m a little more used to bars these days, although it was still fun to queue for the loo in the corridor, chatting to 27 year old boys, who thought I was 25 (joy!), trying to impress me with their junior positions in advertising agencies, not realising what I did for a living, then being stunned to silence when I confessed my career of choice, and age.

I have to admit, I did a bit of snooping around upstairs, and with fond memories, realised something I had long forgotten since owning my own house. When you flat share you have little choice but to squeeze all, or most, of your worldly goods into your own bedroom, whilst shared areas are vacant of any personality and are simply, common grounds. It reminded me of my fresher’s year at university; six girls sharing a fat, each bedroom totally unique in interior design. Whilst sadly, the living room, where we spent most of our time, was totally void of any character or flavour.

Sunday lunchtime, a good friend said goodbye to her flatmate of two years as she loses her to a boyfriend. Long gone are the lazy Sunday afternoons where all three of us didn’t manage to leave the comfort of her sofa, unless to venture to M&S (45 seconds walk away) in our PJs (yes, it has been done), to buy more supplies of Percy Pigs. When I asked if she was going to miss her flatmate, she said she was sad, but being the landlady, she was also looking forward to ‘getting the place back to mine, getting rid of all the crap and surveying what I have’. I think safe to say, my above observation re common ground, didn’t necessarily resonate in this particular flat share.

Sunday evening I was invited for a roast at my oldest friend’s temporary dwelling in SW12. He is living a transient life right now due to various projects on the go, so to economise as much as possible, he has opted for a shared house in Tooting with five others. Whereas I admit to being a little jealous of the fact he’s doing something about that pesky wanderlust a lot of us seem to harbour, what I don’t envy are the foibles that come with so many people in one shared house; never knowing who is stealing your butter or arguing over who needs to buy the loo roll. I’m a little too old for that.

All of this got me thinking about my own flatmate. Whereas his lack of ability to understand how a dishwasher should be loaded, the constant pile of shoes next to the front door, the clothes, keys, wallet, pens, Oyster card and laptop, that are dumped somewhere in the living room and the kitchen the minute he steps through the front door, and the endless glasses of water I always find under his bed always amazes me. I realise on the flip side, having a flatmate who is also my younger brother is great; there is no bickering about who buys the butter or loo roll (I do), we have the same outlook and morals, I can borrow his food, he makes me dinner when I’m dog tired, we know when to leave each other alone, but best of all, I can boss him around. Or call Mum if he doesn’t do what he is told… ;-)

 

 

Ten Years On

Ten years on; an anthropological study of Oceana.

Last night’s visit to Oceana in Kingston, for a friend’s annual trip home from Australia, has given me an insight into a) how much has changed in ten years from when I would have frequented such a place, and b) how little has changed.

The air is still thick with insecurity, desperation and expectedness of what the night may bring, although the layer of cigarette smoke that would have once hung from the Titanic-esq ceiling has been replaced with the smell of fake tan and Lynx.

Tits and Teeth are the order of the day as Cheryl Cole wannabes pour their bodies into a collection of parrot-coloured, ill-fitting dresses (at least we’re safe in the knowledge they’re keeping Bay Trading and Jane Norman in business), overly fake tanned carrot legs are supported by equally colourful platform hooker-heels and bleached blonde hair, straightened to within an inch of its life, perfectly compliments the excessive make-up.

The boys aren’t much better; deep v-neck t-shirts, skinny ties and waistcoats help them resemble an X Factor audition line-up, with most looking as if they have run through TopMan covered in superglue.

The girls (as always) are the first to head to the dance floor, charged with potent cocktails of vodka and Red Bull and resembling newborn foals unsteady on their feet. Mobile phones in one hand, clutch bags and digital cameras in the other, they huddle around to Facebook (read: stalk) boys they’ve just met. This facade of sophistication and confidence rapidly descends to dancing barefoot, stumbling into each other and waving their hands in the air to SClub7. Nothing changes there.

A few brave males grace the dance floor before midnight, trying their luck on the still relatively sober girls. I use ‘grace’ in the loosest of forms; they are merely shuffling whilst being careful not to spill their bottle of San Miguel… “it’s Spanish, innit?” was overheard at one point. Why they don’t just go in for the kill later when the girls are far easier prey, I have no idea. This is something men never learn.

The alpha-females are still left untouched; men assuming (quite rightly) they are out of their league, yet those brave enough to take a chance are shot down with one killer look as allies rally around to protect their leader. These girls are generally waiting for the next footballer; no call-centre supervisor would have a look in, even if he spends most of his weekend down the gym honing his well oiled body and used to be the coolest kid in school back in the day.

The queue for the ladies never changes, it’s always obscenely long, but neither does what goes on inside. Girls still cram themselves two by two into cubicles, sniping sideways comments about who’s wearing what and who slept with who last week. Rimmel lipstick and Juicy Tube lip gloss is applied and reapplied, faces mattified and false eyelashes glued back on. The only new addition, aside from the sex-toy vending machine (seriously), is a coin operated hair straightener (of which there was a queue by 11:30pm) which, if I was still into over-straightened hair, isn’t such a bad idea.

Really not a lot has changed from when I was 18. And I’m not that surprised. The pick-up techniques haven’t changed; girls still stare directly ahead at the bar, trying not the catch the eye of the shy guy standing next to her desperate for her to glance in his direction so he can attempt a conversation (NB: these are usually the guys worth talking to; their flashier counterparts on the dance floor will be later seen down a back ally with the local bike). The technology of course makes a difference; at least we can now pretend to be engrossed in a text message whilst waiting for the inept bar staff to serve us a seven quid vodka and tonic in a plastic glass (no ice, no lemon).

The drink du jour will change, the music will change and rarely will you see a group of girls without at least one face lit up by the screen of her mobile phone as she masters the art of TUI (Texting Under the Influence), but the boys will still think that pawing a girl, sliding their hands onto her waist and slurring into her ear will guarantee a snog. It didn’t work in 1999, it’s not going to work now.