The black cab pulled up at a disused looking warehouse at 5 in the afternoon. Already the queue was long and the bass was hard, pounding out of the grotty looking building. The crowd was young, really young, like 18 or so, maybe some not even that. I could be dropping A off here in 10 years time, or second thoughts, maybe not. I looked nervously at our gang, the youngest being 38 and the oldest 43, the bouncer grunted for ID and then thought better of it when he caught sight of our grey hairs and wrinkles. A quick frisk and we were in.
A can of red stripe in our hands, standing outside, not a ray of sun in sight, the terrace party I had been expecting was somewhat dark and grungy. Except for the music. It was awesome, within 10 minutes we were all dancing away, smiling at everyone like long lost friends, age immaterial and mummy duties abandoned. The mouth was ever so slightly pouted, head nodding and feet moving in the little space we had until the music cranked up and reached the crescendo which required hands in the air and the obligatory whoop whoop. And that's were we stayed for hours, occasionally moving floors for a different vibe and maybe some more beer.
The after party lasted until 5, or it could have been later than that, who knows. Would I go raving again? Yes of course, next week? Maybe not. Maybe next year, if I feel like it. Age is certainly not a factor although the recovery period took rather a lot longer than when I was a youth, and the knees are still aching. But boy does it make you smile, we will be living off that night for a very long time and as I have a week of steamed fish and salad, running three times, pre school jubilee party preparations, children coming to stay for tea, washing, cleaning and all that crap - I can sneak a knowing grin and remember losing myself in the music somewhere in NW10.