Happy new year to all the ravers

Eighteen-year-old me would have been aghast at the idea of staying in on New Years Eve. Eighteen-year-old me wanted bright lights, preferably lasers too, loud music played on a decent rig, lots of people — friends, not-yet-friends — to dance and laugh with. Eighteen-year-old me wanted the best clubs (or arenas, or warehouses, or old aircraft hangars), the greatest DJs (according to the league table in her head), her favourite tunes and to dance until her feet begged for mercy.

She was fine with travelling miles to get to her preferred spot for midnight, taking trains to other cities, or hopping on a coach. She would have had an outfit in mind for a while, although it might have changed last minute. She might have had an idea about catching someone’s eye, although that was also open to change. Most of all she wanted to have a laugh with her friends. To ring out the old year and start the new one off right: half-deaf, sleep deprived and achingly, glaringly hungover.

Twenty years later, a similar me wants a night in with a good book, comfy pyjamas and a small whiskey. Followed by an early night. Eighteen-year-old me can howl all she likes, it is time to let other, younger ones have the loudness and the brightness. Let them enjoy it while it is their turn!