Yes, Tuesday nights have tided me over pretty effectively these last ten years. But last week, when I realised my bedtime had inched forward to 9.30pm, I wondered whether I should Get Out More.
It's not that I don't live a life of vigour and adventure:
It was surprisingly easy to arrange the assignation and the church hall seemed to the most convenient place to do it. Unsure of the dress code for untamed nightlife, I borrowed the school shoes my son has grown out of and some sinuous lycra from my daughter.
'Big booty!' exclaimed a voice as I crept into the dimly lit chamber. I was disconcerted when I realised I was required to take my full-length Turpin off before the excitement could begin. At this point I didn't even know their name. Shyly I disrobed. I felt naked out at night without a wheelie bin in my arms.
I'd prepared some small talk, just to break the ice as we got to know each other, but the stranger didn't bother with preliminaries. Down on the floor I was, on all fours, trying to gyrate my behind in rhythm with theirs. I studied the stained parquet on which I'd so recently played church bingo and tried to think of England.
Then they had me up again, thrusting my stiff hips at them and massaging my cotton contours. 'Big, big booty!' cried the voice and I began to worry about bladder control.
By the end of that rendez-vous my thighs throbbed from unaccustomed demands and I was aflame. I think I could acquire a taste for nightlife, but next time I'll leave my thermal vest off before attempting Zumba!