It's Murder On The Dancefloor

Five days of intensive gym training led me to believe that I looked great in my floor length floaty chiffon, halternecked beaded under the bustline print dress from Ms Selfridge (forget ToSho it will be the store for 2006). A million bucks in fact. I turned up at the Etiquette Christmas 'Ball' unescorted, as my friends had gone elsewhere ( I was joining them later) and spent a couple of hours wafting as elegantly as I could on my spindly heeled Karen Millen sandals. I don't think the shoes were designed to be worn by heffers as they have an unstable heel. But hey, they look fucking good. The trick is to walk slowly - unfortunately it means you look like you think you're 'too' nice. Not a problem for me though.

It's taken me two months to get my ass back in the gym, and even then I had to be nagged and given a free gym pass as I no longer have a membership. M has been my coach for the last two weeks, as I attempted to make myself look halfway decent in time for his ball last Saturday.

When I don't exercise, I feel fat. Whereas when I do exercise, I'm still the same size, but feel slim. Does that make sense? Anyways, on my first day back at the gym, I decide to run for 30 minutes, just to see if I can. And I do. And it was, dare I say it, easy. Even after two months of hanging on the sofa eating all manner of things that would be rejected by anorexics and bulimics. I guess that's what happens when you don't smoke.

This is my fourth week as a ex-smoker, and I've finished attending my smoker's clinic (Obi - how are you doing? *raises eyebrow*). Patches are definitely the way to go. I have six more weeks of them, and that's it. It was funny giving up the evil nicotine. The first week I was depressed. By the second, I was missing me 'old mucker' (friend), the cigarette. It was like it was a real person who had blown me out just when I needed them most (and do I know what that feels like). By week three I was starting to feel like a born again human, real live clothes had replaced the pyjamas and long cardigan I was schlepping around in, and I felt able to venture outside. No wonder people stay addicted to crack, the withdrawals must be a motherfucker.

Now that I don't smoke, I feel more elegant, and...clean. Cos lordy, the first thing you notice when you've stopped smoking is the stench from those that do. It's like I'm a blind person and my sense of smell is compensating for the absence of vision. Having long dreads means anytime I'm out, in a bar, pub or club, by the time I get home, I smell like I've been bathing in ash. To think I smelt like that for 17 years. Boy I was one deluded bitch.

I left the ball after 2am and got a cab to Pikeytown aka Croydon to meet the girls at DJ TLC's birthday bashment. I had an Absolut Kurrant vodka tonic, to which TLC added pink champagne, and then someone sloshed in some brandy. New found demi-sobriety meant I threw half into a potted plant near the dancefloor. After I slurped what was left I knew I couldn't drink anymore on top of the champagne cocktails and V&Ts I'd had at the ball, so just drank water. Can't do high heels and drunkeness anymore.

A couple of guys tried to 'pull' me for a dance, but I weren't up for it. I don't care if it's Christmas, so I politely turned them down. It can be done you know. Then there was the guy who sent his friend to ask me out for dinner. Although he looked like a man he could have been an hermaphrodite, because he definitely lacked balls. And people have the cheek to ask me why I'm single.

M and I had planned to check out the broken beat/future jazz night Co-op the next day. However, the fact that I got in at 6am proved to be too much to overcome. It's official, I can't do two party nights in a row anymore. All day I was busted. I lay on the sofa and drifted in and out of sleep. I bought Sunday dinner, but was too knackered to cook it. Clarke said she was happy with the leftovers from the big pot of chicken I cooked on Friday. God that sounds absolutely terrible.

I could've pushed myself to go, but I would've needed some legal drugs to get me out the door, and I was out of coffee. I guess my years of being first on the dancefloor and last to leave may be about to draw to a dignified close.

Yeah right.