“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.