Sometimes I find myself feeling a bit old.

Last night one of our American editorial interns turned 21. Now, this landmark is a bigger deal over the Pond than here, as 21 ushers in the legal drinking age. The choice of venue is therefore obviously crucial. For some odd reason, my team – all in their early twenties as well – asked for my maternalish advice about where to consecrate her new status.

My thoughts immediately turned to Freud. For those of you not in the know, Freud is a little gem of a basement bar on the northernmost end of Shaftesbury Avenue near St. Giles. When I was a post-doc in the late Nineties, Freud was a favored hangout of the foreign scientist crowd. It was first discovered by one of the German post-docs, a signal transduction biochemist with an uncanny eye for hip and unusual night spots whose antenna led him one night to wonder where the small cast-iron staircase under the pavement actually led.

Word spread, and eventually Freud became a regular hangout. Many marguerites were consumed there as we complained about failed experiments and just generally attempted to numb the self-indulgent postdoctoral angst. After about 10 o’clock, a competent DJ would appear in one of the corners, and the drinks, though as expensive as you’d expect for Central London, were made with flair and aplomb – always involving an aerial component. (I’ve only seen a Freud barista lose control of a drink-in-progress once, and it was pleasantly explosive.)

I was understandably nervous about bringing the youngsters into my old haunt, but fortunately, they were all genuinely impressed. In truth, the place has hardly changed over the past decade, which in London is a rarity and something to be grateful for. There was a bit of sniffiness on the part of our commissioning editor, a self-described cocktail snob who waxed scathing about the use of lime cordial instead of the real McCoy, and one of the editorial assistants said she didn’t trust barstaff who give change back on a silver tray. Fortunately, the guest of honor proclaimed the Long Island Ice Teas to be perfect, and everyone else was obviously enjoying themselves, so I could breathe a sigh of relief.

Tonight after knocking off work, undaunted by hangovers, my team headed off to Victoria station to take part in a flash-mob. Apparently at 18:50 this evening, synchronized to the station clock in the main concourse, a mass of people assembled to turn on their MP3 players simultaneously and dance for fifteen minutes in apparent silence to the music in their own ears. I didn’t feel up for this myself, but I did text one of my editors to ask her how it went.

“It was very silly!” she replied, in the English-perfect text language that most scientific editors, thank goodness, seem to favor over trendy abbreviations. “Funny seeing about 500 people randomly dancing around and the bemused looks from passers by. We stayed for 20 minutes and people were still at it!”

So there you have it. I’m still feeling a bit old. But also a bit wise.