A baby gave me the ‘once-over’ when I was in the supermarket last week. You know the once-over, it’s that look people give you as they sweep their gaze from your head down to your feet and then back up again. Women are appallingly good at doing this look. It’s their way of assessing whether you are potential competition or someone to be pitied and/or disregarded.

Anyway, that’s the look I got from a big-headed, blue-eyed baby looking over his mother’s shoulder.

And yes, I admit that I was wearing my workout clothes and I probably could’ve made more of an effort with my appearance but seriously, it was just Coles. And since when did babies learn how to give someone the once-over?

Anyway, after that I slunk down the pet aisle to get some kitty litter (yes, I am a single woman with a cat) and then left. Clearly it wasn’t my day to be out in public…and I was getting paranoid about babies.

I got a couple more ‘looks’ on Saturday when I went out in the Valley.

The first was from some guy who spent most of his time watching me when he was obviously on a date with the woman dancing next to him. Every time I looked up he was trying to make eye contact. Then I was trying really hard not to look at him but of course he was dancing a metre away and kept moving into my line of sight. Gah!

And then he gave me a high-five when I gave the brush off to some random bloke who thought it was acceptable to come up behind me, grab me by the hips and bump up against me.

To both of these men I say, what the…?

My friend and I left the club soon afterwards. Honestly, we probably should have left an hour earlier when they played Tina Turner’s, You’re the best. The DJ at that particular club is always a bit random but Tina? Really?

Anyway, we ditched the strange men, tried to erase the Tina-experience from our memories and headed to a new club just down the street.

It was while we were lining up at the entry that I got my second ‘look’ of the evening when the bouncer checked my ID.

The fact that all bouncers now check for ID is as ridiculous as it is embarrassing. Ridiculous because they check the ID of people who are clearly well above the age of consent – what for I don’t know because they are likely to forget your name as soon as the next ID is thrust under their nose. And secondly, embarrassing, because they look at your ID, their eyebrows shoot up and disappear into their hairline and then they thrust it back into your hands as if it is contaminated. At least, that’s what the bouncer did to me on Saturday night. Clearly I was older than his usual clientele. Thanks for the ego boost buddy – nice one!

Once inside it quickly became clear that I was probably one of the oldest people in the room (okay, I was definitely one of the oldest people in the room). But, I love to dance and refuse to restrict myself to gyrating in the kitchen to Craig David so there! (Please imagine me sticking my tongue out now at anyone who thinks I should have been tucked up at home in my jim jams instead.)

It also appeared that I was a little underdressed. A few years ago everyone dressed down but now it’s all high heels and short dresses. It’s just like the eighties again.

The eighties spring to mind because the club was called Hot Gossip. The original Hot Gossip in this town closed in the nineties and has since been revamped as a Showgirls venue where the girls wear skimpy clothing and do things on poles (or so I’m told).

Hot Gossip was the first club I ever went to and it would have been apparent to everyone that I was way too young to be there (looking younger than my age now is a bonus, back then it was a curse).

My friend K, who looked far more mature and glamorous than me, talked the bouncers into letting me in (she was a regular). I remember a dark club full of Colombians, drinking Tequila Sunrises (stop pretending you don’t remember that classy cocktail) and sharing a pack of menthol cigarettes (they tasted awful but we were cool, okay).

So there I was just over two decades later in the new Hot Gossip looking at these beautiful young things and feeling a little old and underdressed. But the music was fantastic and if there is one thing I love more than anything, it’s dancing.

Of course, a few years ago I could dance in my stilettos all night. But by midnight-ish my knees were starting to give way and I was afraid I might seize up completely if I stopped moving; frozen forever on a multi-coloured dance-floor that looked like it came straight out of Saturday Night Fever.

I kept going though. I wasn’t going to admit defeat. My heart and soul was determined to dance, even if my body was crying out for mercy.

At the same time, I confess I did look at the beautiful young twenty-somethings around me and indulge in a very small moment of melancholy for that lost decade. Sometimes I feel like I wasted my twenties being sensible, responsible and wanting to be taken seriously.

Perhaps my time would have been better spent out in the clubs dancing the night away, getting drunk, having fun and sleeping with strange men? After all, there was plenty of time for being sensible much, much later (actually, preferably never).

Then again, I think I’ve made up for a bit of lost time in my thirties. And the fact my little sister told me a couple of years ago that I “was supposed to be the responsible one” is probably a good indication that perhaps I’m not quite so ‘sensible’ anymore.

My melancholic moment at the club was very short-lived and I had a smile on my face when I poured myself into a cab a couple of hours later.

I may be part of the older crowd in the Valley but I still know how to shake my bootie baby!

I might wear lower heels next time though.