Last night I went with the gang to a club night here in Edinburgh called “Vegas”. It’s a self-consciously retro night with showgirls, Rat Pack music — the whole megillah. I’m not a clubby person by nature, but it was a great night out.
The venue is bizarre — sulphurous-smelling brick vaults beneath the Old Town. I love those old spaces, but the flashy nightclub clashed with the dark underworld feel of the place. Somehow, though, it worked. The atmosphere was really friendly, too; I think that’s because nearly everyone there made an effort, they didn’t just roll in off the street. The girls were dressed to the nines in shimmery dresses with moulting boas, and the men were at their gangsterish, swingery best.
It occurred to me yesterday as I was out and about preparing for this that how I experience the day is really given by the story I’m telling myself about it. I know this is called “narrative psychology” and is nothing new, but in that moment I really got it. I told myself that I was having a Big Day, celebrating my life in progress, which is a pretty good one, and the rest of the day really did go like that.
I managed to take some pictures.
<
p>
