It has been a while since I have been out dancing properly and I am thinking about Friday with a gleam in my eye. I plan to do it properly, let me tell you. We will start early and start slow, huffing hairspray and painting our faces with glitter mixed into Vaseline, to stick to our cheekbones and reflect the lazer beams. I will eat lightly because all my attention will be focussed on piling my hair into some elaborate concoction like the coiffure of Egyptian princesses and gluing feathered eyelashes to my face and sipping beer. There will be music beforehand, during and after. I have been getting excited about music recently, remembering how much I adore it. Sometimes I forget to press play and sit the afternoon in silence. I don't know why. Sometimes I do other ridiculous things too, like wasting a summer Sunday on Facebook or dating a boy who isn't quite in love with me. Well – no more of that! There will be synthpunk on the stereo and vodka shots, just because, because. We will feel severe and Russian, and I will put on Polish electronica and cackle. Then I will force everyone to listen to High Pressure Days on repeat until they get up and leave.
Of course, there may be no one else there until I go out, this often happens. Perhaps I will be sat alone with my curlers and my alcohol and my pretty plots for things to happen. But in my imagining of Friday evening the friends I adore are eating cheesesticks in my bedroom and helping me apply temporary tattoos and goading me to trim my fringe. They are telling me stories about the girl they will try to kiss tonight and I am telling them how to go about it, and we are probably laughing because who am I to say? I'm so easy when I go about it. But besides. We will prepare with lipstick and drum machines. I will at least. And if I can dredge up some lady friends and the sequinned hotpants jetset, so much the better.
We will go to a club that spans two floors and where the people who play music are beautiful, but by this point it won't matter what they or we look like. It will be dark and drunken and dancey. The walls will loom and ooze sweat and I will be spinning and giggling and clutching at arms to support me in my heels. Because Edinburgh is small and because I used to be some kind of person in this town, I will run into people that I know in many of the nooks and crannies. Because I am drunk and because it is wonderful I will hug them ecstatically, and then leave the toilet queue and go off to dance. To buy cans of Red Stripe lager. To find myself a new mischief and a new familiar. To make eyes at the DJs and scavenge out some fun that will make the world swoon topsy turvy.
I will dance until my careful hair is plastered to my head and my palms are slick with sweat. I will whirl and whisper and think of dervishes, I will sing the lyrics to songs I've never heard before at the top of my lungs. They will all be wrong and it won't matter one iota. I will thrash and writhe and dance dance dance all night long, until I have lost my friends, until I have lost my mind, until I have made some solemn vows to form a band and begin a revolution of sorts, until I have forgotten my vows, until I have fallen over, until I have woken up again in a ditch with dirt in my eyes. I will dance until the lights come up too bright and shiny, and then I will grimace and duck for the corners and afterparty. We will got somewhere that there is a bed laden with people I like, and we will listen to more music and recline in a puddle of affection. Or we will find a tabletop to dance on an suck down shots of mystery booze and gin. Perhaps we will find laughing gas and balloons waiting and we will inhale exhale inhale exhale until the loops in our head go darling and everything is hilarious. Certainly, there will be more booze. More booze until I can't even bear any more in my mouth, more booze until it is lunchtime the next day in the cocoon of a beer garden and cloudy cider.
I have high hopes and dancing shoes for this weekend. I'm excited. It hasn't really been a while. But it's been long enough.