Actually the kids loved it, because why wouldn’t they? No one had tried to sell it to them as a brasserie and member-centric family wellness spa.
It sounds woefully irresponsible in hindsight but it almost felt like an end-of-the-world party.
Few things scream Christmas like iceskating under a giant pine tree followed by a mug of creamy Bailey’s hot chocolate.
The absolute worst thing about bottles is standing over the cold tap willing the water to cool a boiling-hot bottle at a rate faster than half a degree per minute because it’s 4am and your baby is screaming the house down.
The cats were of course all absolute babes, with favourites including Maine Coon brothers Jack and Jasper, and a Devon Rex called Trixie, who I’m obsessed with.
Worth every penny and every second spent dragging my 35-month-old child and my 39-week-pregnant bottom to Peckham for.
You can’t help feeling a little bit like you’ve gatecrashed a toddler birthday party, no matter how nice and friendly the other parents are.
The ball pit was almost constantly occupied by a small clique of under-ones, all wobbling around like Weebles on an 18-30s holiday.
We ended up staying for 2-3 hours and Babu even asked for extra time at the end – her golden seal of approval.
The sort of group you’d look forward to all month if you didn’t live so bloody far away it might as well be on Pluto.