Nicola Adam column: Dancing like you don’t care

Nicola Adam, Group Editor
Nicola Adam, Group Editor
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It has been some time since I threw my hands in the air like I just don’t care and boogied the whole night away without a concern in the world.

Not of course that I don’t have groovy moves spanning several decades and trends (including 90s trance hand waving and the lambada) available at the shake of my tail feathers, but I’m of the encroaching age and persuasion to look for a nice, comfy, (preferably brown squishy leather) sofa from where I can safely scan the dancefloor for embarrassing middle aged mum and dad dancing suitable for filming and putting on YouTube.

Also, my feet would hurt.

That saying, I am not the last person on the dance floor - but I’m definitely not the first unless my prosecco/gin&tonic to sensible cup of tea ration is 70:1

Which mainly occurs at weddings.

And work dos when I have made the fatal decision not to drive but instead summon one of my taxis.

Never a wise move when you have to look your colleagues in the face shortly afterwards.

So with the festive season rolling towards us at the speed of a Coca Cola advertising truck towards a sign for Pepsi, I need to up my game.

Unless I turn down all the invitations for sensible meals which we all know will end up as random evenings featuring glittery accessories, paper hats and competitive cocktail drinking at the cheapest joint in town, I must both physically and psychologically prepare myself.

I must be ready for evenings where I must not only stand up all night but also appear a good sport in consumption of multi-coloured watered down drinks named after exotic fruits.

And staying out after 9pm.

This requires training.

First I must undertake the terrible task of bringing my drinking skills up to par.

So I’m taking one or two for the team (glasses of wine) with greater frequency and thanks to the newsroom supply of free food for testing purposes, I’m also getting in practice with the festive cakes and mince pies.

I’m also resting my feet up on the sofa ahead of tortuous incidents of standing up plus rehearsing anaesthetising them with the odd G&T.

Groovy.