I remember the first time I went to Heaven. I had only moved to London a few months before and I made plans to meet up with my friend Anna, the only other person I knew in the city. She brought a friend along, and the three of us went for dinner in Soho. Someone suggested an impromptu trip to Heaven, the UK’s most famous gay nightclub. We made a quick diversion en route for Anna’s friend to buy a can of deodorant from the off-licence before we were on our merry way.
We spent the night dancing to the likes of Robyn, Charli XCX and Lady Gaga. We met two handsome boys on the dancefloor who didn’t show much romantic interest in us but still hung around all night long. We stayed out late and each endured rude awakenings in the morning as we trudged into uni and work. It was only then that our friend realised she had bought and sprayed herself with a can of hairspray on our way to the club. The kind of joyful oversights one only seems to make at 22.
