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Martha's

The corner is dark and I am shielded from sight by a black partition.  I have a complete view of the bar and the dance floor.  It is Pink Pound night – all of the drinks cost a pound and I had found it very hard to walk in a straight line on my last visit to the Ladies.

Earlier, downstairs around a table we had drunkenly agreed that Avid Merrion was extremely funny, and if I had had less drinks I might have tried to steer the conversation towards the importance of this from a cultural point of view. Instead we just quoted scenes from the programme, giggling, staggering up the steep fire escape to the club above.

By far the most fascinating person here is a middle-aged woman with a rock and roll quiff. She wears a chequered shirt, a kind face, and gives me a sexy little smile when we make eye contact.  I think she must have been here forever, sitting on the end of the bar enjoying the view just like I am.

"I'm sorry about what I said earlier." he says, barely heard above the pulsating rhythm, "You know – what I said about you being bisexual."

"Don't worry, I'm used to it." I reply, mumbling into my drink.

I take another swig, scanning the gyrating bodies.  The alcohol is too sweet, and in the light of the bar a rather unhealthy shade of green.  I am 'Other' again.  Why don't I belong in a place that by all rights I should belong in?  I knew there was a reason why I didn't come here anymore.  The barbed mumblings and comments about swingers said earlier still stung me.  It is like Morrissey wails in 'How Soon is Now?' …

There’s a club if you’d like to go

You could meet somebody

who really loves you

So you go and stand on your own

And you leave on your own

And you go home, and you cry

and you want to die

Strange how small things make me angst ridden.  I was supposed to leave all of the teenage angst behind a long time ago.  And now, a matter of years from my thirties, I am dredging it all up and getting angry about some throwaway comments a young queen makes.  It is like my teenage nephew being freaked when I approve of him wearing black nail varnish, and then being mortified when I tell him I wear black nail varnish to work.  May be, like him, I'm not as subversive as I first thought.

I should pull myself out of this mood.  I am here, in a club, watching some pretty girls kissing.  I need to stop the record player in my head from sticking The Smiths on repeat.  After all, a hell of a lot of people do understand me, even if I won't find them here lurking in the shadows.

It is easy now.  I go on to the dance floor, wiggle about to cheesy music that I hate.  But it is all fine – after all where else can I get felt up by another woman?

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