What Are The Chances?

There really ought to be a law against people over 40 consuming a birthday shot. And then another. And another. And if anyone is searching for evidence of why this law is necessary, you really should have been there on Friday night.

Why is it that after a g&t or two, shots just seem such a great idea? When I hold a shot in my hand it never occurs to me in that moment that I am a thimble away from a guaranteed hangover. And that in between said shot consumption and the resulting hangover, there will be the compulsory embarrassing behaviour, revealed in horrifying flashbacks over the course of the next 24 hours, causing me to sink my throbbing and tender head even further into my hands, turn off the phone and pull the covers even more firmly over my head.

As you can gather, it was a good night after all. From what I can remember.

I do remember leaving the house actually feeling quite spry and glam. For the first time in a very long time, the attempt at creating 'girl's night out' hair and make up had been quite successful. The taxi arrived on time - another first since moving to the hood six months ago. We convened on a stylish roof top terrace for cocktails, making quite a glamorous and intimidating group even amongst the beautiful and willowy mini-skirted 20-somethings.

I do remember pacing myself drinks-wise - my usual style is to sling back alcohol like it's Ribena, with the liquid barely having time to touch the sides. It's as though there is an internal rugby team in my head cheering "down in one, down in one, down in one..." - tho I rarely need the encouragement. I was definitely sober enough at this point to negotiate the maze of tables in my heels to check out the loos. (Is it just me, or do other people always feel the urge to check out the toilets of a new swanky place, as though they are the definitive gauge on whether or not a venue truly lives up to its reputation?) I do remember the loos were a bit weird - a little bit too communal for my liking. I had an initial fright on entering, until I realised that the white blocks on the walls weren't urinals but super-trendy hand dryers (hmmm, maybe on reflection this does indicate that I was not quite as sober as I had liked to believe at the time).

We moved on from the glamorous terrace with all its beautiful people to a buzzing restaurant a few blocks away, filled with clones of similar fashionable wannabes showing lots of fake tan skin and big white teeth.

I do remember ordering wine and sharing delicious appetizers.

I even remember getting a lesson in how to meet new men - gladly demonstrated by one of the mums in the group - who simply sashayed over to a table of 20 men, plonked herself in the lap of the guy at the head of the table and proceeded to flirt shamelessly. She made it look so easy, but I am not sure I will EVER have the balls to replicate it.

I also remember flirt-extraordinaire mum returning to the table and ordering shots. And then the details begin to get a little...hazy.

In my version of subsequent events, half of the crew left after dinner at about midnight, while the remaining gals - including myself - headed to a downstairs lounge masquerading as a very small nightclub. As is usual in these salubrious joints, it is standing room only unless you pay $250.00 for a table, which comes complete with a bottle of vodka on ice and various mixers. One thing I remember quite clearly about the evening is that I didn't have to reach into my purse for cash or card at any point in the evening. But magically within seconds we were all seated at a table being poured indecent sized vodkas even by my standards. I do vaguely remember at this point trying to suck fruitlessly on an icecube, in lieu of a much needed glass of water. Needless to say, judging by everyone else's subsequent reports, it was a piss-poor attempt at sobering up although the only thing I will say in my defence is that at least I tried.

The next two hours are a distinct blur. Apparently I danced like a bitch on heat non-stop, only taking the opportunity to sit down when I inadvertently lost balance during a particularly extreme hip gyration and fell into a chair. It sounds to me like an exaggeration that can't possibly be true but I am assured by many that it actually happened - and not just once but several times.

At this point in my life I am beginning to question whether these pole dancing lessons are actually a good idea. Provocative dancing, when done fairly anonymously in a very dark room with just a handful of other women who are also intent on releasing their EC (Erotic Creature), is all well and good. Practicing raunchy moves in the privacy of your own home, usually to the sole amusement of two cats, isn't going to harm anyone. But. Writhing around in a crowded nightclub like a teenage-pop-queen wannabe is also another thing that is not to be recommended when you are in your fifth decade. I mean, let's face it. I AM middle-aged. Maybe Madonna can get away with it. But quite frankly I am not Madonna and do not have the dance floor technique or talent to persuade anyone that I am.

I think the real danger in taking pole dancing lessons is that I have also reached that stage in life where, quite frankly, I couldn't give a shit. I have always loved to dance but was much more self conscious when I was younger. Now I really couldn't give a monkeys whether or not I make a fool of myself. Which is just as well.

At some point pretty early into the dancing we were surrounded by guys all trying to muscle in on what appeared to be classic mums-who-don't-get-out-much-and-could-be-up-for-pretty-much-anything action. The one thing I do remember through the blurry alcoholic haze is that there appeared to be a hunky guy invading my personal space the majority of the time. In days gone by I would have been offended and simply moved away to dance unobstructed (towards the next chair I was ultimately destined to propel myself into arse first in the vain hope that I would simply rebound to my feet). But now I am a floozy and a slattern and am so fucking grateful for any male attention, that I simply continued to dance like a strumpet. If there had been any more writhing I would have either left the building with a snake charmer certificate or an STD. Possibly both.

The next morning slowly dawned and I made a valiant effort to lie-in but just felt too crap not to get up and attempt to be rescued by pill-based remedies washed down with caffeine.

The phone rang at 10-ish - my lovely friend regaling me with tales of the evening and lots of drama that I had been too inebriated to register.

And then I receive a text. From hunky dancing guy. We had arranged to meet for lunch. We had?! News to me. And how on earth did he get my number (at this point I begin to sweat and realise that I could turn up for lunch to meet a guy with my number etched into his forehead with indelible ink - I mean, I may have no recollection of actually volunteering this information, but judging by the gaps in my memory that's not to say that it didn't happen).

I decide to live dangerously and meet him for lunch. I am hoping I will recognise him. The combination of dark dance floor, dryed out contacts sticking to my eyes and alcoholic optic nerve dysfunction creates a vague image of a potential axe-murderer that I saw once on CrimeWatch. In all fairness, I am hardly a picture of health and innocence myself. My eyes are bloodshot and every cell in my body, but particularly those in my face, are holding onto every minuscule molecule of water they can get a grip on. I look distinctly puffy and hungover. Every time I try to walk my right hip flexor twangs painfully and my right hip simply collapses towards the back of my knees. I begin to wonder how much it might cost to rent a zimmer frame for the week.

Anyhoo. Long story short - dancing bloke was British. On holiday from Birmingham. Very sweet but wore white shoes. Sorry - maybe they are all the rage now back in the UK but...I don't think so. We had a nice-ish lunch but he definitely wasn't the 'hunk' that I remember through my beer goggles.

British? Birmingham? What are the chances?!