A few weeks ago I made the decision to clear out my ottoman.

The ottoman is basically where stuff gets shoved. All the rando items of clothing, camping equipment and knackered sportswear that you can’t be bothered to either a) sell, or b) lug to the charity shop. Either way, I made the decision to finally clear out this dump space to make room for some rather nice, and very sensible, new bed linen.

It was then, surrounded by various piles of hoarded junk that I came across them: my collection of corsets.

Rolled up alongside other bits of vaudevillian tat, I had kept these lovely things as a homage to my somewhat extrovert past. This was back when I used any excuse to lace myself into one of these boned beauties and hit the town like some modern-day Hackney showgirl.

But, sadly, these outfits hadn’t seen a dancefloor in years. Not since the pandemic. Not since becoming a dog owner. Definitely not since buying sensible bed linen.

It was then that I decided to take matters into my own hands. For one night only, I would let this former extrovert take centre-stage. I would arrange a night out to include everything my former self would have loved before the pandemic got in the way of things…

I formed a plan in my mind and arranged for my friend to meet me in the West End that evening. To add an element of surprise and mystery to the occasion, I told her simply to ‘dress for the cabaret’.

It was then that I went full method. Out came the sparkles, spangled pants and heels. The false eyelashes, the finger waves, the fringed slip.

Lacing myself into my trusty black corset, I felt like I was reclaiming the side of myself that had effectively been stashed in an ottoman for the last two years.

I popped a Glenn Miller LP onto the record player and fixed myself a kir royale while my curls set, enjoying the luxury of taking the time to get ready. No rushing out the door. No checking emails while painting your nails. Just a modern-day Hackney showgirl living her best bohemian life. 

I met my friend outside London’s Playhouse Theatre.

“Don’t tell me you got tickets for Cabaret,” she said, sporting a glamorous red lip.

With a dramatic flourish, I waved the QR codes at her.

“I understood the assignment and booked tickets for the most opulent show in town,” I exclaimed. “Everyone’s been talking about this new production and I’ve been dying to go for ages. Tonight felt like the night.”

Stepping down into the theatre, any inhibitions I had left completely disappeared.

My friend and I had become immersed in the dark decadence of 1930s Berlin and Cabaret’s iconic Kit Kat Club, complete with a glittering gold art deco bar, the chinking of champagne coupes and moustachioed dancers in silk knickers dancing on plinths.

Musicians with violins and coronets moved through the crowd while guests found their seats. At this point in time, the corset was the only thing containing my excitement.

As soon as the house lights dimmed and the Emcee (played by the sinister yet boyish Fra Fee) bid us Willkommen, I knew we were in for something truly special. The circular stage gives the impression you are living and breathing right inside the very depths of Cabaret. Stockinged chorus dancers climb the balustrades and slink in amongst the stalls like cats, while the orchestra plays from the heavens rather than the pit.

When Sally Bowles (whose gutsy fragility is captured so perfectly by West End star Amy Lennox) emerges from beneath the stage in a plume of smoke and baby-blue tulle, the audience lose their minds. It’s little wonder the production has already won seven Olivier Awards, including Best Musical Revival.

Also, it goes without saying that this entire spectacle was directed by a woman, Rebecca Frecknall, who also happened to win Best Director at the Olivier Awards. Only a woman could curate something this magnificent.

Several times throughout the performance I turn to my friend, our jaws hitting the floor. Cabaret is a show so astonishing, you don’t want it to end. Throughout, you are reminded of how important it is to live and love freely, because like Cabaret, the curtain could fall at any moment.

Plus, guests are politely asked to cover their phone cameras throughout. This performance is one for the rebels, the sensualists and the extroverts. What happens at Cabaret stays at the Cabaret…

As we left the theatre, Soho felt like the most obvious port of call.

From its brassy neon bustle to the dimly lit cocktail bars and restaurants populated by late-night revellers, off-duty performers and London’s LGBTQ+ community, Soho is a playground for life’s extroverts.

Still dizzy from the show, champagne cocktails were most definitely on the cards. Settling into armchairs at Dean Street Townhouse, with its Georgian architecture, red leather stools and tiled floor, we watched the capital unfold before us.

Once midnight approached and Soho emptied out onto the London streets, we left the bar and got lost in the hum. Like me, the extroverts were out in force. Everyone with a tale to tell, the air crackling with the sound of compliments, plans being made and thumping techno from passing tuk-tuks.

It was then that I realised just how much I’d missed this. The atmosphere of ‘anything goes’. My much-missed extrovert was happy to be out of storage and back in London’s buzzy underbelly. And it felt exhilarating. Right there, amongst the glorious rabble of Soho’s scenesters, I made a promise to myself to embrace this energy rather than shut it away (with the sensible bed linen). Once a month, I would let her run wild.

Much like in Cabaret, every so often we need to embrace the feeling of being free to do whatever the hell we want. Dress how we want to dress, dance to our own beat and love who we want to love. Because let’s face it, none of us will ever know when the band might stop playing.

And, while I definitely won’t be breaking out the corset for business meetings any time soon, I feel happier knowing it’s always there when I need it. 

Catch Cabaret at the Kit Kat Club at the Playhouse, currently booking until 1 October 2022. Tickets from £30. Buy tickets now at atgtickets.com