25/04/2018 11:32 BST | Updated 25/04/2018 11:32 BST

The Single Mum And The Club

Eve Tawfick
Actual photographic evidence I left the house AT NIGHT

Not long ago a close friend and I decided to ditch our mummy jeans and head out to the club. We swapped our, “hold the whole universe+nappies” bags out for sparkly clutches and donned our dusty heels. We looked like newborn giraffes as we tottered over to the local nightclub, trying to navigate the cobblestones in shoes that hadn’t seen action since we were 21. Soon we were there. It was loud. It was sticky.

We ordered white wine. Lukewarm £2 wine in a plastic glass that tasted like vinegar. ‘How did I used to glug this stuff on the regular?’ I asked myself, as we attempted to sip at our bargain bin Dutch courage. As I looked out at the dance floor I reasoned that I may need a little more courage than the Dutch could offer, possibly Ghengis Khan courage? The club was a veritable jungle of loud, drunken people. Girls wearing little more than dental floss, men pulling bizarre drunken shapes and bashing into people, strange old men looking for a squeeze. Through sober eyes it all seemed so … well… obnoxious. One girl attempted to grind an entire group of men, another was trying to kiss a guy who wasn’t interested - all oblivious in their inebriation. I cringed at my 20 year old self. I could almost see her, in an apparition above my head - pushing me to get in there.

Once upon a time I had been seduced by the inertia, the lights, the thump of the music in time to my heartbeat. Now all I had was sticky feet and a desire to slip into my pyjamas.

A group of hens in pink cat ears swanned by, like beautiful flamingoes. Jugs of blue liquid decorated the table. A draft from the smoking area rendered me half hot, half cold.

We did a quick sweep. We ended up next to the men’s toilets, a great place to rate stumbling men out of ten as they go to piss. A young boy in faded denim tried to drag me to the dance floor, he was so drunk he looked like he was about to swallow his own tongue.

I wondered how my day went from Peppa Pig goes swimming into this. Maybe I’ve grown old or boring, or both. A siren call from my son’s bedroom drew me back. I would rather be with him, indoors, snuggled into bed. I didn’t want to prance around the club and get groped by married men, or hit on by lads fresh out of high school. I didn’t want to be squashed claustrophobically onto a dance floor and “bop” soberly to the music like a plonker. It’s time to hang up those sparkly heels for now. Skip the hangover that makes me so vulnerable I would happily cuddle my enemies all day. Waking up bleary eyed with my head pounding having to make breakfast for my son. We left the neon jungle. We laughed, we sang 80’s songs on the way home. Prince Charming of the club was probably buying his Cinderella her fifth shot by now. Let’s hope she doesn’t leave a shoe there, because unlike the fairytale she won’t be getting it back.

I always thought I was missing something. Being a single mum often means you have to forego the nights out. The only thing I missed was my son. My 20 year old self would be turning in her glitter covered grave. RIP, she had a great time.