I FREQUENTLY have some underused tail feathers in need of a good shake.

So imagine my delight, though there's no law saying you must, on learning of the existence of daytime discos fuelled by coffee. Two of my favourite things happening at ­civilised hours. Oh, my giddy, disco-dancing aunt.

In Brooklyn and Manhattan, Daybreaker parties happen between 7am and 9am. Ravers in suits and office wear, inebriate of espresso, get their freak on before work, ­blinking from the strobelights into the sunlight.

In Sweden they're ahead of the curve. Lunch Beat, a midday office rave that started among a handful of colleagues before spreading worldwide, has sparked a trend for dry discos at any time of the day.

I am casting an eye around my colleagues and I cannot for a moment imagine which ones would help me start a lunchtime office rave, but maybe I'm being narrow-minded.

Daybreaker parties include massages, yoga and a free haikus service. How lovely to be able to dance in a space where to be massaged is optional, and not directed at your bum, as are odd lines.

Nemo enim fere saltat sobrius, nisi forte insanit, said the Roman philosopher Cicero. No-one dances sober unless they are insane.

Cicero had never attended a Sauchiehall Street nightclub but he had the motto down pat. Drinking alcohol is such an accepted norm that to not do it is provocative.

But there comes a point where teenagers on tequila, wildly flailing and wild of eye, grate. Where lairy groups of lads pogo-ing to ironic millenial Wheatus and landing on your toes becomes intolerable. Where someone thinks they're throwing hilarious shapes but are really risking the vision of all around them as they flap and punch, flap and punch.

You are guaranteed broken plastic shards underfoot and someone is invariably sick, or thrown out for fighting. You are also guaranteed to be market produce, to be weighed and valued for potential, despite your own discomfort. As the permanent designated driver I danced my way sober through university and beyond. I recommend it highly. The only pain is from overworked feet, not hungover heads, fried food ­stomachs or dented, rejected pride.

To be energised by the thought of going out to dance at the same time I would previously be coming home from dancing: this is adulthood, this.