Last Friday I went to my local nightclub, called The Pink Toothbrush. Being granted the ability to indulge in my local (albeit limited) nightlife after my entire 18th year stifled by A Level misery in lockdown was hugely enticing. The venue had taken on a near-mystical quality as a child, only glimpsed inside if you could make it during the Christmas lights switch-on, forever knowing it had once been called 'Crocs' and gave a home to real alligators. As you get older you find you have a lot more things organised, and so I received my second jab beforehand, shuffled through a converted pharmacy. Oddly, there was a print-out of Madonna's Ray of Light stuck to the wall, which I realised must've been my kindly doctor's favourite album. I felt astounded and inspired in equal measure by this presentation of sheer confidence in his personal taste, his Madonna fandom for all the village to see, defying all stereotypes and popular critical opinion. If he had blu-tacked OK Computer or Dark Side of The Moon, he wouldn't have been nearly as cool. I was so distracted by this the nurse had to reiterate the instructions to wait outside, like I had been instantly struck with some side effect. And so as once again my arm felt a little sore, I waited in my cubicle and immediately left for the pub to get one step ahead of any possible grogginess the vaccine could give me.
