Sipping on my porn star martini, the tropical flavour tingled on my tongue.
A few cocktails deep, me and my partner Tom, 34, had hit up a local bar called Town and Gown that evening, on 5 August last year.
We rarely went out just the two of us – we usually had our son Brooklyn, now nine.
But with my mum Jane, 70, and my dad James*, 74, looking after him, we made the most of it.
Dressed in pink, we watched Barbie with Tom’s mum Lydia*, 61, before heading out for dinner.
Only, it wasn’t long before the cocktails drummed up a familiar craving.
‘Let’s go clubbing,’ I said.
‘No, I’m ready to go home,’ Tom laughed.
But I was determined to have a boogie.
‘Oh, come on. Just for one dance!’ I replied.
Somehow, my pleading worked a charm.
And soon, me and Tom were nipping down the road to the local nightclub, Vinyl.
