“You must call me, if anything happens,” I said insistently, catching sight of my face in the mirror and finding it garish and unfamiliar with its smears of lipstick and eyeliner, “I can always jump in a taxi and come home.” The children sat wide-eyed either side of their father in our bed, warm milk bottles and cheery cardboard books in hand. How clean and cosy they looked. The usual routine – one kiss, another, and then gently pulling the door closed.

Twenty minutes later, I was not in the living room listening the quiet snuffly sounds of children trying to fall asleep. Instead, my ears were being pounded by the fashionable sounds of a DJ whose name was unknown to me, and my eyes dazzled with the smokey brilliance of chandeliers against the dark grey of industrial concrete. I have never been so struck by what an overwhelming sensory experience we create to impress and entertain; though most religious institutions mastered that art centuries ago, now I come to think about it.

We were being visited for the weekend by a glamourous urbanite friend, who was determined to take me to a party for which she had two invitations. I was rather game of course, having not left the flat past 8 o’clock in the evening for about two years. That is a slight exaggeration: I have been thrice to the cinema and twice for dinner with friends, but never so far away as to need a taxi nor to such a splendid venue that I should worry about the yoghurt stains now permanently ingrained on the shoulder of every garment I own. So, as you can imagine, this was going to be very exciting.

The first sip of cocktail prickled my tongue. Quelling a sudden desire to cry, “Look at me – I am out, drinking a cocktail and wearing an expensive silk dress. Aren’t you impressed?” I haughtily surveyed the large space crowded with people who looked distinctly like they did not have twins. Taking inspiration and doing my best to look equally cool, I stalked behind my friend to the indoor beach bar. It was here amongst the artificial palm trees that I saw a message flashing brightly on my phone telling me both children were quietly slumbering. A wave of satisfaction more powerful than any spirit passed over me.

Over time, we were encircled by a variety of my friend’s colleagues. They were mostly cheerful, trendy, and as yet childless types. Assessing their attire, I began to wistfully regret my high neckline and low-heeled boots. Perhaps I should have worn earrings. And how chic I’d felt on leaving the flat. They took polite interest in me for a while, asking the usual questions of what I did and where I did it. But soon they realised that I, with my days of nursery schools, raisin rolls, and green whale t-shirts, was not of much professional use to them in this moment.

I was glad when a heavily made-up lady walked past, bearing branded trinkets in a deep tray slung over her shoulders, giving me grounds to slink away and ask, “Are they to give away?” I had noticed stretchy sequinned headbands, glittering in one corner and thought my babies would love those. When she nodded, I reached in eagerly and took two, only to be greeted with a sharp retort of, “Only one per person.” Just as I was about to meekly implore, “but I need one for each of my children,” my friend swooped in and took one herself, which she pushed into my hands as the lady turned away.

We watched the party people come and go, and dance and drink, and smoke and drink and dance again. We watched them talk and smile, and laugh and drink, and laugh and silently appraise each others equally fashionable clothes. A deep yawn contorted my face, and I peered at the screen on my phone. “I should go – it is nearly midnight.” I said, rather lamely. My enjoyment of the party’s spectacle and its actors was ebbing with tiredness. At the cloakroom, I dug around in my handbag pulling out unappealing handfuls of well-used tissues. The ticket was in my wallet, which when opened revealed two chubby faces staring at me with expectations of energetic early mornings. Children’s rising times are somehow not compatible with all night raves.

I slumped sleepily in the back of a taxi, with sore feet and a familiar but almost forgotten post-party buzz in my ears. Then I crept up the stairs, opened our door as silently as could be and slipped out of my smokey party clothes. I hurriedly dragged the make up from my face and swilled away the stale taste of rum left behind by one and half cocktails. The sounds of heavy breathing whispered through the flat, each chubby face peeking out of a bed cover, rosy and peaceful. Banal as this may sound – it was fun to go out, but it was even more special coming home. Oh, and yes, they did well and truly love the sequinned headbands.

They are funny creatures, other people’s children. Now I don’t mean nieces and nephews, who are invariably interesting and rather lovely; of course, the same is mostly true for the children of your friends. No, it is children you don’t know at all that, well – dare I say it – can be a little bit of a pain.

As I write I wonder if my opinion is, perhaps, somewhat tainted from yesterday’s experiences; climbing thrice into a child-sized indoor climbing frame, bashing yellow and green mini punch bags out of my way and wading through the ball pool on my knees to haul out one of our little ones from beneath a brutish four year old. Moments before that I saved both sets of toes from violent destruction under the wheels of a red plastic car driven by a heavy-looking boy far too large for the vehicle.

These indoor play areas, built into the back rooms of a few cafes we know round here, are both a parental godsend and hellhole, all depending on the unique dynamic of children which can form inside their hot, (and often slightly sticky) colourfully-painted walls. This dynamic is not unlike that of a playground, except that it seems to churn up scenes of anarchy more quickly and intensely than its outdoor equivalent. I suppose because it bubbles and bubbles in its confined area and with its finite number of heavily used resources – toys.

In my heart, where I hope a spirit of fairness reigns, I know that I should not blame the children. Most of them are only being wild spirited. When they dash and pull and tumble and shout, they are expending that wonderfully childish energy all pent up at the end of a rainy Sunday. But sometimes (on the hellish days) shouts become screams, the tumbling – fighting, the pulling – pushing, or even worse – biting, then you start to think “someone should be stopping that child”. Casting your eyes around, you see no likely parental candidates for this said beast, and then your fair heart drops a little in your chest, with the realisation that they are probably sitting comfortable in the relative calm of the adjoining cafe sipping a latte and reading the Sunday magazines.

Sometimes, then follows a brief moment of moral quandary – do I take it upon myself to explain to this child that biting is just not the done thing these days, or would that be deemed interfering? Mostly, though, as was yesterday the case, my maternal fury is so inflamed as I see my poor little mite close to being shoved from the edge of a perilously high plastic slide that my voice sharpens instinctively, as I point my finger intimidatingly and say, “stop that – the child is much smaller than you”.

As time goes on, there is another side to this, too. The older and sturdier our children become, the more the onus also falls on me to protect tinier ones from their more capable hands. I must say that I have never seen either of our children purposefully set out to injure another child (apart from each other, that is). Not wanting to paint them as saints, however, it could also be that they have simply not yet reached the brutish stage. But when and if they do, I promise I will do my absolute utmost to prevent them from behaving like little hooligans ruining other children’s fun, even if it means reading the Sunday magazines in the evening once they have gone to bed.

There I lay in the big bed, a sleeping child grasped tightly in each arm. I had been there for more than an hour, for our children do not fall asleep easily as the children of more organised parents might do, and my hands were starting to tingle. The situation was at once magical and rather awkwardly limiting. You are one of only two people in the world who can do this, I thought to myself, for want of something pleasant to pass the time until I could be sure they were sleeping so deeply that I could carry them to their own beds. But with this same pleasant thought rushed in a sudden overwhelming feeling of enormous responsibility, the strength of which was unlike any I had known since those early days with tiny babies.

Twenty months in and this was my first night alone with both children; tonight is to be the second. Now, of course, I feel very responsible for the wellbeing of our children all of the time, but this night alone represented something different. I, a singular I, had to make this work – we all needed an evening meal, a good night’s sleep and to get to our respective posts in a reasonable state the next morning. Not so hard, you say – and, indeed, it happily wasn’t – until you start thinking in what ifs. What if they don’t sleep at all; what if one of them is ill; what if I am ill; what if I set fire to something in the kitchen, or I forget to turn the tap off in the bath? On a dark night the list can infinitely grow. We live in a city without relatives. Our friends here tend to have children of a similar age, or busy jobs to go to during the day. Probably as generally fatigued by life as we are, to call on any of them in the middle of the night would feel extremely anti-social. In an emergency, yes, but not for minor upsets. Father was two plane journeys away and I was in this on my own. As I might at the start of an important exam, I felt under a great deal of pressure to remain clear, calm and focused.

So I extracted myself slowly and meticulously like a human spillikin, briefly looked down adoringly on my sleeping bounty, tiptoed to the door and proceeded to pass obsessively from room to room, turning off heaters and lights, triple checking the oven, and wrenching at bathroom taps. We all slept (soundly enough) in one bed that night; I was too chicken to risk waking them up. Tonight, I’ll brave it and try putting everyone in their proper beds. There is some leftover porridge from this morning after all.