When Cinders went to the Ball

On the rare occasion when I don’t have two attachments clinging onto me, I found myself sipping Prosecco in one trendy hotspot.

Like an enthusiastic tourist, I’m taking in the sights. And there are some sights. Bottoms have made a reappearance this season, but it’s not to everyone’s taste.

I speak to anyone who talks back.

When I was footloose and fancy free, I wouldn’t have entertained chat; my place was on the dance floor. No longer a regular, I’ve become quite selective. Picking clubs and pubs is based on the ratio of chairs to persons. My heels are high and I’m used to my home comforts, you see I’m usually at home.

But I do love to dance. It gets me to the core. Thrashing about on the dance floor, moving every pound of me, that’s where I want to be. I have a somewhat violent reaction to music and I don’t care whose way I’m in. I am dancing. I do need to pace myself in between numbers though.

Resting results in random chat with lots of, randoms. Seated or leaning, you are a target.

And as I said, I’d talk to anyone. But there are some people you just shouldn’t talk to, but I can’t seem to avoid them. Walk away from boring, egocentric nut jobs, any excuse will do, but I keep talking or worse, listening.

At least if you’re the one speaking then you’re in control. Listening is overrated, you’re not in control and you’re willing the person to stop.

Berating myself, I tell myself to LISTEN!!!! I’m drifting off again. Shit I missed it, and now, I’m never going to nod, laugh and grunt at the right bits.

I’m headed to the bar. I hate this bit, I’m completely out of my comfort zone.

I don’t have a problem pushing past people to get to the dance floor, but squeezing past sweaty armpits to line up for a drink is disturbing.

I’m probably not supposed to say this out loud, but it’s at this point your senses are acutely aware of the impact of the Smoking Ban. The place stinks with no smoke screen to hide behind.

And I start to think of home.

I don’t queue for drinks. He does. I miss him right now. I’m the essence of modernity but not when it comes to queuing. I would be lying if I said I miss him when I’m out. He’s a terrible dancer. His moves are the same as a daddy longlegs; gangly and cumbersome. I dance, he gets the drinks. I talk, he listens. He talks, I never listen.

After what felt like an eternity waiting to be served, our bottle of Prosecco arrives. Nestling in its shiny bucket, my friend and I sip the bubbles. Life is good.

Glancing over my shoulder to my disgust, we were rudely interrupted by what looked liked a member of a boyband. His grumpy little hands clasped tightly round the neck, caught redhanded having a swally. Rude. I was even hurt. Not just because he was a young pint-sized little sparrow-fart, but because he had a complete disregard for this momentous occasion. Too chat without interruption, to toilet without company, to bore the pants of people telling tales about my foxes. Interruptions, even to my thoughts, are constant and this arrogant teenybopper was another interruption.

I treated him like I would my three year old. “Say you’re sorry!”
“No, say it like you mean it!”
The runt of the litter offered a reluctant apology, as I scowled at him.

His over eager friends were quick to come to the rescue, offering their most sincere apologies.

It’s been a while since I’ve been chatted up, and I don’t think I’m being arrogant by saying, I was being properly chatted up here. But before the hunters sought out their prey, tales of my cubs had them dropping like flies. I should add my beautiful friend was receiving enough attention, but that’s her story. I don’t tell tales.
One by one they dropped away? People just don’t want to talk. Was it something I said? Come back, I’ve not told you the funny bit yet!

Disappointed, I hadn’t even had the chance to make up one of my tales? I love a story and the romance of a new audience. Ever since I was underage, I’d make up names and extra Curriculum activities, part of the clubbing experience ritual. It was now a pubbing experience because Cinders here likes to check out early before the natives arise.

Next up, a guy donning what looked like a customised jacket. It may have been designer, but it was horrific. A songwriter. Really? Liar. This guy liked fiction just as much as me.

“I like writing too, I said.” But first tell me about the lapels on your jacket. No man should sparkle more than a woman? Did your mammy sew them on for you? I was on fire. I had to get this guy away, I hate, hate, hate, bling on a man. I’m all for inequality when it comes to pink, sparkles and diamonds. Diamonds are a girl’s best, not a boy’s and certainly not a man’s. Matching diamond rings, I squirm at the thought. Does no one have respect for tradition? My big fat gypsy boy was sent on his way to think again. But not before I asked him about his songwriting, the liar. My humour was lost on him as he turned on me to suggest a few style pointers of his own. I don’t think my kind was his type.

Another dance with my faithful friend and we’re hitting it hard on the dance floor. Ignorant to anyone in our radius, she and I are a dynamic duo.

I’m a woman’s woman, I like to think. So I’m now talking with what I think is my own kind.
“But I totally thought you were my age!” she said.
“I am. The last time I was here I was twenty four.” I hollered, above the exceptionally loud music. They’ve definitely turned the volume up, its not what it used to be.
“You totally look my age,” she echoed.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“My age, you look my age,” she repeated.
“That’s because I am. There’s really not that big a difference between us.” I bellowed. Could someone turn the music down just a tad, I can hardly hear myself think.
“And you’ve got kids too.”
”Two.” I said, gloating.
Miraculous that. I was starting to think that there was something special about me. When I was six you were in nappies, you’re just a few laps behind me, I thought.

And then, I may as well have swapped my six inch heels for a knitted cardigan with the words:
“At your age, I was married with one on the way.” Horror crossed her face. Well, someone had to burst her bubble.
Age comes to us all, but I suppose that’s something that comes with age….



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