It was my birthday last week, and to celebrate, we took the whole family out to the club.
Simon and I go there reasonably often, because it’s a short walk from our house, it’s comfortable and not too noisy, and it’s upmarket but not too expensive. I was a little surprised when the bartender greeted Simon by name and asked him if he’d like a negroni. One of the offspring asked how he knew Simon’s favourite drink, and he said we come every Thursday at 7:30. Well! I hadn’t realised we were quite that predictable. If I get promoted to intermediate in my dance class, that will put the kibosh on that habit, but luckily there’s no chance of that happening anytime soon.
We stood chatting at the bar for predinner drinks. This seemed to make the staff a little uncomfortable, I suspect because for many of the club’s usual clientele, the ability to stand for long periods of time may be a distant memory. You forget that dressing up and sipping posh cocktails is an unusual activity for twenty somethings. One daughter ordered a dirty martini because it’s what she’d seen at the movies. I took photos of her reaction as she tried it. The first taste you get is apparently the olive brine which she seemed to like but it was followed by a blast of almost pure alcohol which she was clearly unprepared for if the wincing is anything to go by.
Dinner was lovely, the vegan dishes we’d warned the kitchen we’d need on booking were very well received even though they seemed to mostly involve removing certain ingredients rather than doing anything else. At one point I was surprised to hear the end of a conversation from the other end of the table about the joys of a perfect poo. “…and then, afterwards, when you wipe with the toilet paper, and there’s nothing on it, fantastic!” This lack of inhibition in talking about bodily functions will hopefully be a real boon for the younger generation. Do you remember me mentioning my scary Scottish grandmother, who was offended by the term “passing wind”, and insisted farts were called “blow offs”? She actually died of bowel cancer. Would it have saved her life if she’d been able to discuss her bowel habits openly with her GP? The treatments on offer back in the 80s were far more limited than what is available now, but who knows? It wouldn’t have hurt.
Today’s youth may be riddled with ADHD, autism, gender dysphoria, and climate anxiety (thanks, Boomers! I’m taking none of the blame for this, as a Gen X), but in many ways, in their openness and honesty, I’m optimistic for them.