Something comes over parents of small children when they have the opportunity to go out. Properly. Out, out. OUT. There is a kind of mania. A kind of disregard for tomorrow that students have no clue about.

When the babysitter arrives we are already preloading. Partly because we are loathe to spend huge amounts of money. Money is one of several of life's essentials that children constantly leach out of you like vampires. The others being time, sleep, sanity, intelligence and life force. It would be preferable if all they took was blood. But also, this is it. This is the one big swanky night out we are going to have together for the foreseeable future. It’s now or never.

We wave goodbye to the sitter. It’s not her first time. She knows what she’s getting into. Once we’re out the door, we will not think about our children again for the next few hours, with a bit of luck.

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We are dressed up too. It’s a charity ball. Lots of local parents together in a big room, in evening gowns and tuxedos. It all looks incredibly civilised, but that is a facade. We are all away from our children. It’s clear there has been extensive preloading. This is it. Kaboom.

Things are already getting rowdy during the meal. Then the disco happens. It’s literally the worst disco in the history of discos. It’s cheese on toast, on toast made of cheese. And it’s not even new cheese. It’s been lurking at the back of the fridge since 1998 when Steps released Tragedy.

But none of this matters. The dance floor, thick with drunk parents, goes absolutely mental. It’s amazing.

Five hours later, our two year old wakes us up. The hell begins.

Was it worth it? Basically... no.