Let me take you dancing...

'Do you have any ID?'

The question any kid trying to get into a nightclub hates to be asked.  Entrance in is totally dependent on whether the ID is acceptable/genuine and God help you if it belongs to someone else who bears more than a passing resemblance to you, but who is five years older.

But we were four ladies aged between 42 and 58 waiting in a queue of students, trying to get into a rather seedy club in Oxford, with the sole purpose of shaking our booty for a couple of hours as a finale to Mrs B's birthday celebrations.  You would have picked up that there were only four of us still standing at this point.  The other ladies had all bailed around midnight but we four were hardcore, and not prepared to end the night so early.  So back to the question.

'Do you have any ID?'

'Really?' I asked.  'At our advanced age?'

'Yes, I need ID from all of you', said the doorman.  Actually, the 'man' part of his description is misleading, as I have tights older that he was.

Thinking he was joking, Mrs F proclaimed that she had ID.

'It's called crow's feet and stretchmarks', she laughed.

Worryingly, he didn't laugh back, but conceded that our bank cards would suffice, so we were finally allowed across the grubby threshold to the payment desk.

'Did you want to see my ID?' I asked, bank card at the ready. The girl, who had obviously gone to the same School of Charm as the doorman looked me up and down.

'What do you think?' she asked.  Followed up by. 'That's £9'.

And so followed three hours of dancing, singing and general mayhem, as we showed all the 20-somethings how their mums probably behaved the minute they went back to university.

Luckily, I didn't drink too much on Saturday night, so no hangover.  But my feet....

If I could swap them for a pair of industrial castors  I would...

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