I was lying on the shiny dancefloor, gazing up at a massive silver disco ball and performing the sort of pelvic gyrations which, had the nuns from school witnessed, would’ve confirmed their grim prognostications that I was marked out for a life of badness.
I was clad in stretchy leggings, a baggy t-shirt because I didn’t own a leotard, and the all-important leg-warmers. My permed curls were tamed by a scrunchie. All the...
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