"I just don't belong here," I said to myself, softly.
I'd been to a birthday party. Or rather, birthday drinks - with a great crowd of people I have never met, and a handful of people I only just half-know. In a darkened upstairs bar at one of Reading's more popular venues, we jostled and drank and tried to chat over the consistent thud of the DJ, while tall women and men in tight tee-shirts swarmed around the bar. I was feeling out of place.
The thing is, I just don't enjoy that kind of thing. It started when the barman downstairs warned me that it was 'a private party up there, mate' as I climbed the staircase. I hate it when people I don't know call me 'mate'. It's patronising and belittling and annoyingly infectious.
"I'm invited mate," I said, politely. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
I don't enjoy it because I don't understand it, I think. I don't get drunk, and certainly have never been so drunk that I can't remember a 'good night'. I don't really dance (although there wasn't any dancing anyway) and when it comes to socialising and meeting people, I am hopeless at the best of times. Turn the lights off and the music up and I don't stand a chance.
And so it was that I was walking dolefully along Queen Victoria Street at midnight, thinking about all this and how I just don't seem to belong to the world I'd just tried to be a part of. I like talking to people and listening to them, getting to know them soberly and intelligently. Am I growing steadily more old-fashioned? I must admit, I do sound a bit like my Dad. But then, I was like this when I was younger too. At University, I'd always have chosen the quiet night at the pub rather than the one that ends up with vomit and a headache. Maybe I really don't belong.
But that has to be OK doesn't it? I mean, we are all different after all.
