A plea for steps according to the English model

It was one fluid movement from the food on my plate to swirling across the dance floor. Around nine o'clock it started to pick up, by ten o'clock the atmosphere was exuberant, by eleven the slurring began and by twelve the bar spat us out onto the street. By one o'clock I was in bed. My stomach filled with an afterparty snack. I found it delightful.

From now on, I would like to go out according to the English model. By that, I don't mean the always chic way of going out of our neighbors, but rather keeping the times of the pub. I like it. You sit down reasonably early in the evening for a solid base. You are not too tipsy by the time you try to draw a wing on your face or tackle your hair with a curling iron. It gets dark early anyway, so our biological clock finds everything perfectly fine. You don't drink through your fatigue to stay on your feet, and you also have a decent night. Even if you have to get up very early because you went out while you had to work, it's manageable. Provided you don't leave a little vomit in the office toilet, of course.

Actually, I always thought I loved festivals because of dancing outside, but suddenly I realize that this preference might also have something to do with the clock. Enjoying the first performance around two o'clock, then snacking early, and here too lies the climax for the late hour. A few still need to space out for a few days, but I am always reasonably tolerable the next morning after a (long) shower.

At the last minute, I was still found in a bar last week. When I heard one girl shout to another girl behind me at Ain’t No Party Like An Alcoholic Party that she didn't know it either and that it was probably a very old song, I suddenly knew: I am heading towards old age and that's why peaking early in the evening suits me so well. And you know what? I find it delightful. To celebrate that, I sang Alcoholic Party very loudly. That way, the girls next to me at least knew for sure that I was really very old.