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An Old Liar

That's what I am: an old and boring liar.

First, I am a liar because only a mere three days ago I wrote complaining about water waste and drought conditions. Only two days ago it was announced that we are no longer in drought. Indeed. I stand by my water waste statements, even if we are not officially in drought. Also, here in London, at least, the hose pipe ban is still in effect. As near as I can tell, in my neighbourhood, this only affects the Park Plaza, who for some reason has an inexplicable need to pour obscene amounts of water all over the sidewalk at the back of their hotel in the name of cleaning it. An excellent use of water, no doubt. The rest of us don't even have gardens, never mind hose pipes.

However, all of that is a complaint for another day. Joy to you, I know you were concerned that you might miss out on another ecologically driven rant. Just to keep you on the edge of your seat: I have a little number on recycling up my sleeve, so stay tuned.

Today, though, today is my shamefaced admission that I am getting not only getting older but old (and boring). Last night I found myself at a 28th birthday party surrounded by people both older and younger than I in a chain pub in central London. As I took the Tube to this lovely event I thought to myself how downright brilliant I looked in my tea length white skirt, sparkly flats and black top with just a hint of bondage in its metal eyelets and black ties. Yep, I even had my hair highlighted for the first time there a couple of weeks ago and I was feeling pretty smart. Hot, even.

When I arrived, a young, 23-year-old friend of mine complimented by outfit saying, "I love your dress. It's so casual!"


My lovely white skirt, which, I might add, I bought from the infinitely sexy Victoria's Secret, is "casual"? Oh. Thanks. I was totally going for "casual". So much for tea length.

Anyhow, had a fantastic time at the pub chatting and laughing at the fella in the sparkly Union Jack dress and matching thong. Good news: he was wearing that outfit over his normal clothes. Bad news: I didn't bring my camera so your imaginations will have to suffice. After a couple of hours there (fine, after last call and the lights came up) we headed up to Camden. Oh, yes, Camden. I haven't been out in Camden for ten years. Of course, I haven't lived in England for nine of the last ten years, but still, Camden! Last night I would not have said this, but I think it actually was a return to my not so distant youth.

Bad sign #1:
I asked the policeman in Camden tube station when the last train was. Not the way to start your night. Ten years ago, I definitely didn't care when the last tube was. You can take a bus, a taxi, heck, haven't you got two legs? Last night, I just thought, "Oh, but the tube is so much faster."

Bad sign #2:
I was the only one in the club who recognized the song, never mind knew the words to Our Lips Are Sealed by the Go-Gos. And I'm clearly the biggest AC/DC fan there as I head banged my way through You Shook Me All Night Long.

Bad sing #3:
The rest of my crew, who, I should mention are all within 5 years of my age (some much closer to me than others), were unimpressed with the collection of the Go-Gos, Journey and other 80s classsics so they went upstairs. From the stairwell, I could tell that this could only end badly. The thumping bass was giving me heart palpitations through a closed fire door. Inside, I was completely disoriented by the lasers and strobe lights. I used to love strobe lights. I used to want a strobe light, it would have looked so cool next to my lava lamp. Then the music hit me.  And I do mean "hit me" it was as violent as music can be. It was a thumping club beat made by a jackhammer with a cacophonous overlay of table saws and dentists' drills. It was the most horrific thing I'd ever heard. I lasted maybe 45 seconds.

Waiting for the night bus next to a girl in zebra print suit with furry pink accents and a "pimp" cane I tried to remember who I was in Camden 10 years ago. I know I liked Metallica, it's one of the things I had in common with my husband when we first met, and we definitely did some dodgy dance moves to the thumping base of Kylie and Sophie Ellis Baxter - I have the tinnitus to prove it - so I can't have always been like this.

My other half insists that I insert here that I have always hated loud music, and he's right, I have, but somehow I still feel like a different person these days. My birthday looms and although it's not a "big one" there is one of those on the not at all distant horizon and I wonder am I getting older and more boring?

Then I think: No. I've always hated loud music. I can't imagine I would have ever liked the Construction Site Remix and there is nothing wrong with a little sing-a-long music in a pub where you can hear what your friends are saying. As we get just a little older, we get just a little more interesting and it's worth being able to hear people.


  1. Hear, hear!

    I'd take being able to hear people over "coolness" (and let's be honest, who calls themselves cool AND THEN LEAVES THE 80'S MUSIC ROOM FOR DANCE BEATS?) any day.

    But then, it would seem that I've *always* been old and boring.

    Yesterday I wore my regular sunglasses over my real glasses. Because I don't have prescription lenses and I didn't feel like putting my contacts in. And there was this little voice in my head that just went, "Who cares?"

    That's not even a subtle sign. That's, like, a flashing neon blaring horn kind of sign. Sigh.

    But then, I *am* about to turn the big 3-0, so obviously I've just begun my descent into Overdom a little bit early.

    Weep for me, Sinèad. Weep for me.


  2. No weeping, I have decided to celebrate the coming "Big 3-0"! You should come to London and we'll have a joint celebration, or, better yet, I'll meet you in Scotland! We'll go to a pub, have a chat and request every 80s song on the juke box.

    Oh, and other readers, have a look at Amanda's lovely blog at She has her second novel coming out soon!


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