Loud

On the August Bank Holiday weekend of 2010, my friends and I (so many of them!) spent 14 hours at the now-mourned Brighton club, Audio.

We met at 2pm, giddy at the prospect of an afternoon, evening, night, whatever came next, at our favourite place to party.

I had just bought a pair of white leather boots from Topshop with tassels. They cracked my ankles as I walked, making a very obnoxious noise - perfect. We left to our beds at 4am, pupils like saucers, perhaps one Marlboro Light left at the bottom of a handbag for next weekend.

The following August Bank Holiday I went to a party at a friends’ parent’s house. I had never met this family, so spending the evening wrestling naked in their swimming pool was a completely demented move.

What happened next was worse - I’d taken myself off to bed in the mother’s bedroom, and then thrown up on her new carpet. It was mortifying to the point of only JUST being able to handle the mention of it now (it’s one of THOSE stories that does always seem be brought up), and I certainly couldn’t handle it the next morning when I received a Facebook Messenger notification.

“OMG I bet you want to put your head in the oven today haha xxx”

I was never invited back.

All of this to say that this August Bank Holiday was not like this. And it shouldn’t be, because I am now a grown woman and Topshop doesn’t exist to sell white, tasselled leather boots.

One thing they should teach soon-to-be-parents in NCT is that Bank Holidays with small children is a bit like running an ultra-marathon while someone yells directly into your ears in regular intervals. You will emerge on the Tuesday a different person.

You will have SEEN THINGS.

We are now in the child-rearing phase that is very loud. I cannot handle very loud things: perhaps due to spending 14 hours in clubs in my youth. The word ‘mummy’ is repeated on loop, what does this say, mummy? Mummy can I have a snack? When can I play with the car transporter mummy? MUMMY? Mummy is this poo on my hand?

On Friday - named ‘Mummy Day’ in our house as it’s the day off I have with the children - I was excited at the prospect of an extra-long weekend, just us, our little family unit. I pictured long walks, picnics, the seaside. Bliss! And all of these things did come in to fruition, albeit not quite as blissful as I imagined.

A walk into town had to be cut short after Kit (the younger one, almost three) had the most epic meltdown the world has ever seen because I wouldn’t buy him a cake at Greggs after already buying and paying for the gingerbread man he’d requested.

It went downhill from there, attempting to placate him with a trip to the sandpit did not work and somehow made it worse - ending with me marching him through town with him screeching at me.

Toddlers are fucking UNREASONABLE.

Sunday was lovely. After the rain of Saturday we headed to the marina and watched the boats rock and roll before eating at everyone’s favourite restaurant - Pizza Express. The absolute pro waiting staff hand out colouring sheets and those brilliant twist-up crayon sticks, ten points. We all gobbled up our dough balls and pizza and then went on a ‘fart walk’.

See - when it’s good, it’s really good. I sat in the car on the way home looking back at their snoozing faces, lightly sunkissed, looking angelic. ‘God, I’m so proud of us,” I said to Chris. “Me too.”

Bank Holiday Monday has drawn to a close after an amble through a National Trust property close to us. An amble!! Not an amble. That sounds nice though. I’d like to apologise to any of you who were in a five to ten mile radius for the shouting. We didn’t take the buggy which was a huge mistake - HUGE - so at one point I was lugging a picnic bag, Raife (the older one, almost four), my trusty LV Speedy Bandoulier (I did say I liked bags) while Chris wrestled Kit into a fireman’s hold so we could get back to the car without anyone calling the National Guard.

After we got home and I’d vaped for about an hour solid in the garden, I finally felt ready to tackle dinner. This is another topic they should cover in NCT. Perhaps I’ll write a module for them here.

As they ate I ran myself a hot bath so I could hide from everyone for half an hour.

As soon as I’d sunk into it I heard them all bundle together to watch The Simpsons, and I got straight back out because I missed them. I went downstairs in my towel, with bubbles still clinging to my legs, and sat down on the dark blue velvet - a completely impractical choice, and yet still one I am glad we made - and instantly two hot little bodies leapt across the room as if we were all made of magnets.

Their soft, podgy little arms and legs entwined, their heads resting on me, their fingers finding mine.

And now, after they’ve drifted off to sleep, I think that I’d not want anything else than this. This is perfect. Even if it’s all very, very loud.