Hell’s bells! I have been living in a dream. I was under the assumption that the word “party” meant joining up with friends to have some organised fun - but consider this. The other day, when hanging with my son who was back from Harrow, I told him to go and hook up with a certain female friend. He turned on me and said: “Are you mad? She’s a party girl.” What’s wrong with partying, I asked? He raised an expressive eyebrow, and I understood exactly what he meant. Drugs? I asked. “Exactly,” he said. So when people say so-and-so loves partying, it means they’re coke heads? “Of course,” he said. Oh dear. So that’s why those It Girls were always described as party animals. I’ve always liked being called a party girl, but now I realise it’s a code for druggies. I have always wondered why I was unable to stay up all night. But without the use of drugs or drink, it seems virtually impossible for me to go past midnight. Besides, people’s conversation starts to become dull or rambling. And now I know why! I suppose I never see drugs around me, except for grass, and therefore without realising it I have coccooned myself against the modern world.
But I try not to. Recently, I decided to get over a few phobias. First, get into the driving seat again. Before, I used to struggle to get into a car after 6pm and drive myself, but I bought a Mini convertible and am now able to go almost everywhere in it. I also have a desire to learn the tango and Arthur Murray’s school in Baker Street is slowly getting me over my fear of dancing. I’ve had it since a girl teased me for being fat when I was eight, and I thought to myself I will never dance again. Thank goodness, I have, with lots of encouragement and I am receiving tuition from Britain’s finest tango dancers. Just wait until you see me smouldering across the Dorchester Ballroom floor sometime soon. But don’t say, “Look at that party girl!”
