In Grazia a couple of weeks ago, I read of a trend so horrifying it stuck in my mind for days. It entered my head again last week, when stuck in the dimly lit hell that is A&E at 3.30am, after a bout of unexplained nocturnal infant wheeziness, I found my eyelids drooping towards my knees, and experienced a tiredness so profound it physically hurt. I realised this was the latest I had wilfully stayed up for months (labour excepting, and possibly the odd boozy wedding).

Anyway, the feature told how more mothers of young children were becoming born-again, ‘second-wind’ ravers. These women were going out out to throw some shapes on the dancefloor after dark, coming home in the early hours and feeding their offspring breakfast while experiencing technicolour hangovers. The author revealed how she could be found out reliving her clubby youth with her other 30-something mummy/raver friends ‘most Friday nights’. Admittedly as is often the case, this is probably a trend as told by one 30-something journalist with a book to plug. But it sounds plausible. If Sadie Frost (mother of four) and the rest of the erstwhile Primrose Hill gang could do hardcore partying, why not mere mortals like us?

Erm I’ll tell you why not. While I absolutely love music, and I loved going clubbing up until my mid-to-late 20s – and I’d still love to have the occasional night out on the danceloor, and I’ll never give up going to gigs, even when I’m 50- I can’t think of anything more horrific than regularly (as in ‘most Fridays’) staying out till 4am at some soulless hellhole playing plastic dance music, full of 20-something men with untucked shirts and nauseating chat-up lines. Particularly nauseating as they will inevitably be directed at other 20-somethings, not you.

I don’t particularly want to be the oldest swinger on the dancefloor. I was never that into the whole dressing up thing that much anyway. And I kind of like having a conversation where I don’t have literally stick my tongue down someone else’s earhole in order for them to hear me. But most of all I don’t want to be feel and look even more tired than I do already. Which is very very tired indeed. It’s Ok for Kate and Sadie. They have 24 hour on-call nannies and emergency facialists and whole flotillas of staff to ensure they can carry on socialising in the manner to which they have been accustomed. The rest of us have to organise babysitters, we have to worry about the hours ticking away and our bank balances diminishing, we have to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow, and clean the house and make the bottle, and organise breakfast and change the baby, and a million other things, before our days even properly begin. The prospect of going out in these circumstances doesn’t feel like a treat to be anticipated with secret delight, it feels like looking forward to a bout of mild to medium torture.

I’m not saying the future is necessarily Baby Loves Disco (I’m equally suspicious about a club designed for both parents and babies.) But I do know, that I won’t be getting out the glowsticks and the white gloves just yet.

 

Advertisements