Doof doof doof doof doof doof. Her eyes are shut and she can feel the beat of the bass through the soles of her feet. Snaking up her shins, thighs, buttocks and coming to rest in the pit of her stomach. Her legs are pumping with the action of a step instructor, her arms keeping rhythm, her fingers enclosed around the cool feel of the oft times refilled Evian water bottle clutched casually in one hand – the talisman of the Brixton clubber. The clubbing scene - here she is in the midst of it all. A mate called round earlier - "Wanna go clubbing?" “Where?” “Brixton. Only 10 minutes on the number 37 and an easy trip home when you’re totally out of it.” “You’re on." “I’ll come round for you at 10.” “See you later.” Nearly 40 and she was still striving to find a scene that in her heart she knew wasn't her, never would be. Why? ...
I write therefore I am