Doing my own thing

On a perfect New Year's Eve.

Just after midnight on New Year’s Eve, the hosts of the dinner party I was at announced that everyone would be going clubbing in central London. For some reason, I hadn’t mentally prepared for this eventuality. I should have seen it coming really, especially when people began bunching up in small groups and disappearing into the temporarily designated cloakroom at the back of the flat.

I had trekked all the way from south of the river (like, so far south that even referencing the river feels silly) to Finchley, an area I had never been to before. The soiree, hosted by a friend of a friend, was in a gorgeous building with ceilings so high we could have been dining in a foreign embassy. I thought this because most people kept switching between French and English and the classy cornices on the ceiling. Everyone had been asked to bring a little something for the table, so a plastic bag brimming with jarred Greek favourites — Gigantes beans, stuffed vine leaves, and olives — seemed like a thoughtful, last-minute offering. Sadly, these delicacies didn’t attract much attention. Other contributions fared better; a homemade quiche made a brief but delicious impression before an unfortunate Prosecco drenching.

When my friend Rosie relayed more information about this club — it was at a hotel and had a dress code — I knew it would be a hard no from me. I’d likely be judgemental about the music all night, and I also felt frumpy. The other women there were so effortlessly beautiful in their short glittering dresses and click-clacky kitten heels. I had spent ages on my make-up but didn’t feel confident in my outfit — a dark blue velvet dress I bought for a wedding a few years ago and threw on when everything else didn’t fit earlier that evening. Staying at Rosie’s that night made the decision simpler: skip the club and retreat early. The idea of sinking into her soft bed and enjoying the privacy of a peaceful bathroom was too tempting to pass up. I’d take off my make-up, which was beginning to cake, and brew tea to begin my post-NYE rehydration process. Before I got the chance to explain, Rosie already slipped me the keys.

After a series of fruitless (and frankly ludicrous) attempts at hailing an Uber (on NYE!!!), the rest of the group surrendered to the idea of taking the night tube to the club. We all walked out of the door together and into town until I heard their cards beep on the tube barriers, and I turned off for the Overground station. There weren’t many people on the platform, at least not as many as on the train rolling in. As I stepped into the carriage, the hot, humid air hit my cold face, and I relaxed into the warmth radiating off others. It was freezing outside. You could tell by how the windows had steamed up.