Or perhaps not...

I think any concerns that I might have had about my friends' progression towards maturity has been quite firmly quashed after Friday night...

But it all started off so civilised! People were milling about sipping (with restraint) from crystal wine glasses, nibbling mini onion bhajis and small-talking over the thoughtfully low music. Air was kissed and champagne corks popped. A few people left at around 11.30 remarking what a lovely evening it had been and then, half an hour later, it struck 12 and we all turned into pumpkins. Or something like that...
Who knows what happens? At what point is a switch flipped and nice, respectable mid-twentiers morph into feral beasts who pour things all over the carpet and try and pee out of windows; who empty out jars of marmalade in order use them to drink from; knock pictures off the walls; break beds and generally guarantee that I will be in the maximum amount of trouble with my parents?
How? Why? When did the background music become pounding Drum&Bass (oh, well that might have had something to do with me) and people retire to corners to snog people I am sure they shouldn't be? And why was there a strange Brazilian woman wearing zebra-stripe leggings, a fur coat and sunglasses dancing with me in the sitting room?! These things will remain a mystery. Suffice to say that A Good Time was had by all.
Dad had promised an early morning visit so at 9.30am, eyeing the alarming stain that had appeared on the new carpet with horror; I slunk off to bed in order to postpone the inevitable wrath until after I had had a few hours of sleep.
Just before I gathered myself together to try and find somewhere to curl up, one of my guests came charging out of one of the bedrooms (which is also Dad's office) looking panicked and cried "I have to go to Kenya!" before diving out of the front door. Oh dear. Either someone was about to miss a pre-organised flight or something unspeakable had just happened in that room... Thankfully it was the former and I think he made it.

In stark contrast to this, and I think with the hope that it might be a civilising influence, Martin took me reeling at the St Columbus Church in Knightsbridge.
Many years ago my Grandfather, who acquired a taste for Scottish Country Dancing whilst living in Shanghai (?!) professed a desire visit St Columbus Church whilst he was staying with us in Knightsbridge. I think he wanted to keep his joints well-oiled so as not to be shown up at the Scottish Country Dancing Society in Brisbane where he was then president (an unexpected setting but perhaps the only place his fake kilt and lack of Scottish Lineage might go unnoticed).
Off we went and Mum and I sat at the side suppressing giggles as we watched the elderly Scots of Knightsbridge hoppity-skip about in an absurdly sincere fashion. It was a sedate flurry of tartan and Laura Ashley. One man had the most fascinatingly fluffy ears I have ever seen.
My second encounter with the London Reels was last January when I was taken along by my oldest friend Lucie. She assured me that it was much changed and an altogether younger, sprightlier affair now. She was right. I was scooped up and whirled around by a very lively man, whooping all the way. Not surprisingly, they are as Sloaney as it gets and I decided it was high time to leave when the conversation was steered in the direction Pony Camp.
This time I had been promised a glimpse of the famous Young Georgians, of whom I had heard so much. So after a spot of milling, a suitable amount of braying and some glugging of free wine, the music started up and we all scurried into formation for the Dashing White Sergeant. I was dancing with Martin and a tall Australian guy who looked decidedly out of his depth. We ruined 2 or 3 sets before we managed to clap at the right time and spin each other in the right direction. We went around the whole room twice and by the end we were glowing profusely and about ready for another glass of wine. The evening continued in this manner the reels becoming increasingly vigorous as the wine flowed. Martin turned out to be an enthusiastic, if not proficient, reeler. His height is such that I could see his jubilant smile bobbing up and down from the other side of the room as he hoppity skipped about. I was hurled about the room by a heel-clicking officer who liked to refer to young ladies as 'totty' and invited me to pose for him semi-dressed, tied to a pillar and mid-swoon whilst being rescued by a Knight in Shining Armour for one of his large 'militrary oil paintings'. Just the kind of thing to adorn the walls of the officers' mess. Oh God. He told me that he had the knight and the armour but was still in need of a damsel. I suggested that Martin would make a much better damsel than me and decided it was high time to leave.

So that is what I have been up to over the last week. The jolliness only to be rather depressingly interupted by the inevitable slog of The Job Hunt. Still, a few positvive responses and a couple of interviews have cheered me up decidedly. Watch this space for the withering reivew of the World of London Recruitment, which is sure to follow.