The Moustache has a distinctly grown-up feel – it just happens to cater to grown ups who have children. And frankly, that’s the best kind of cafe I can think of.
I always feel slightly uncomfortable about members’ clubs and their keeping-out-the-riffraff vibes, so this felt like a nice, inclusive alternative.
Play cafes are the eternal saviour of the sleep-deprived adult-in-charge-of-a-small-person, but sadly the pandemic has kissed goodbye to/coughed all over a hefty chunk of our favourites.
I can’t abide an ugly soft play centre, but if it’s tastefully appointed with a muted colour palette, clean lines and the odd kitschy add-on I’ll gladly climb aboard.
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.