I DON'T get out much. What with a demanding job, three children and an inescapable urge to get to my bed by 9.30 every night, it makes partying a little inconvenient. Then when I do manage to drag myself out, I find my requirements have changed somewhat in the intervening years.
Once, I thought nothing of going dancing on a school night, and still had enough energy left to do Friday and Saturday into the bargain. Now, number one on my personal cocktail list is a comfy seat. The music can't be too loud either, and there can b
e no draughts (apart, obviously, from those being pulled at the bar). A pub crawl, meanwhile, is absolutely out of the question – once I'm perched on my chair with a friendly waiter tending to my every need, I'm going nowhere (I might even be tempted to kick off my heels and slide into a pair of slippers, though I'm told that kind of behaviour is frowned upon in polite society).
But, hey, a girl has to let her hair down every now and again. Which is how I found myself – mid-Dubonnet and lemonade (dig that retro vibe) – under attack for a career choice I made more than half a lifetime ago. (Then, at the tender age of 20, with only an ability to spell and the beginnings of a passion for punctuation, a more pert, less bitter version of me was shipped off to a faraway shore, where my fledgling journalistic talents were gently nurtured amid the traffic-violations of the sheriff court, the oversized fruit and vegetables of the local flower show and the champion pipers of the Cowal Games.)
Anyway, there I was, minding my own business, when a friendly gent struck up a conversation. What did I do for a living, he enquired. On finding out, he adopted a strange, shifty look, leaned forward and asked conspiratorially what my advice would be to his son, who was determined (against all his best advice) to become a journalist.
"Who'd want to be a journalist?" butted in his pompous, opinionated chum. "They're all geeks."
I have been called worse (mostly by my children) but it didn't half put a damper on the evening's frivolities.
A few weeks later, in another city hostelry, colleagues and I were hard at work deconstructing the cocktail list. Just as the new mum in our number was demonstrating how one goes about teaching a ten-month-old baby to swim, a glass was knocked to the stone floor (well, what do you expect when you perform breaststroke in a confined space?). No problem at all, said the barman, who produced a fresh glass with a flourish and took our orders for a third round (bringing our bill to a rather hard-to-swallow £87).
Then, just as we were deciding where to go next (and, rather conveniently, after we'd already settled the bill), another glass took a tumble and the waiter advised us in loud, unequivocal tones that we'd have to leave. No amount of denials, not to mention claims of a wobbly table, could convince him of our sobriety, and we were escorted off the premises like common drunken tarts. Mortifying. Particularly for Non Drinker, who'd been on mocktails all night.
We won't be going back, of course, but I can't deny a small frisson of excitement at the whole affair. It's not exactly throwing a telly out of a hotel window, I know, but getting chucked out of a bar is about as rock'n'roll as it gets these days. Call me what you like, but at least I'm no geek.
