I'd bought tickets to see Kate Tempest back in October, thinking, come February we'd be going out all the time.
What an optimistic fool.
With both children not even considering sleep before 8pm these days, a show that started at 7.30 seemed a tad ambitious.
But with a good friend, who's also a mother of two, offering to babysit we thought we'd give it a bash.
I breastfed my son from pretty much the moment I got him through the front door in the hope that he'd just nod off. In contrast I agreed to a long and sugar-filled list of demands from my daughter in return for her absolute assurance that she would go to bed the very second our friend turned up.
And at 7.20, we were miraculously in a taxi. Neither of us had eaten. And I'd only had time to Febreze my works clothes. But we were out. And more to the point, on time.
Now. The thing about buying tickets so far in advance for a night out is that you can sometimes forget the exact details of what the tickets were for.
I'd watched Kate Tempest perform before. She was fantastic. She also had started moments after the doors had opened.
This was not to be one of those nights.
As we entered the club, the forth people in the queue, it felt like the end of a primary school disco when they turn the lights on in the school hall just before your parents come to pick you up.
Stark strip lighting and no music. In fact virtually no atmosphere.
It turns out there was a support act, which wasn't starting for another 45 minutes, and then a further hour till the main event.
I'd totally misjudged the evening. We had turned, half-starved to a club-night-style event and were virtually there before the bar staff had started their shift.
'Play it cool,' Ben and I whispered to each other.
The venue didn't sell food. Obviously. Not even a packet of dry roasted.
Instead we ducked out over the road to the volley ball court cafe, which had also just, moments before, closed the kitchens.
So armed with a handful of flapjacks they were just about to bin, we re-entered the club, panicking we'd get searched and they'd confiscate them.
The place was starting to fill up a bit by then with effortlessly beautiful people who must have been about a third our age.
And I had a think about what my 20-year-old self would say to me now; the total keeno, dressed in my works clothes, panicking my face off that I'd get chucked out of a night for smuggling in oat-based products.
She'd probably be shaking her head in despair whilst downing a pre-pub bottle of red wine and chain-smoking Embassy Number 1.
But then she doesn't have two children yet.
She still has that all to come.
And fast-forward fifteen years and she'll be painfully grateful for any opportunity to go out, so much so that it becomes standard to turn up two hours early to a gig.