Wendyl Nissen: Stuck in motherland

That woman you saw stomping down the road in the dark last Friday evening was me.

I'll admit it, I heard you toot, saw you wave but I was in no mood for social frivolity. I had to get home, I had a child to look after and I wasn't happy about it. Thus the stomping.

Most of the time I'm happy with my role as mother of five, grandmother of one. In fact, I could be guilty of being a bit of a bore about how much I love being a mum, tweeting and Facebooking endless homilies on the subject and posting gorgeous pictures.

But sometimes, especially on a Friday evening, I just want to have fun. Something I haven't had a lot of time for lately as my passion for lunch has dwindled.

I hear the staff at SPQR think that I am now living in Venice, having converted a monastery into a B&B. Over at Prego, they think I've moved to live in my caravan full time while making cleaning products in the awning.

"You home soon?" came the text from my daughter, who had arrived home first. I found it half an hour after she sent it and only because I was rummaging in my handbag for a lipstick while laughing my head off at something hilarious someone said.

"Soup on the stove, there by five," I replied, before looking at my watch and realising it was already five.

I had taken some time, pre-lunch, to cook a nourishing bacon and vegetable soup for my daughter and her friend for dinner before going out to their school social that night. I had not failed in my motherly duties there.

"Plane delayed, arrange pick-up from social," was the next text from my husband, who was down-country but had been due back in time to be the designated social driver.

The stomping began.

"School social. Got to go. Home alone. See you next time," was all I said as I left several bottles of champagne and a great group of women who, just 10 minutes earlier, I had decided would make very good company if I was stranded on an island. Intelligent, witty, thought-provoking. Fun.

Fortunately, it was a short walk to my home, as every step taken was an indictment on my status as a mother.

"Bloody kids, what was I thinking? Who needs five kids anyway? Where's your life gone? When did you last have some 'you' time?" were a few examples of the negative self-talk which went on as I stromped my way to my daughter.

I heated soup and fed two girls, one too excited to eat, the other ravenous. They were being picked up in 15 minutes.

"There's a problem about you getting home," I told them. "Your Dad was going to do it but he's delayed and I'm, well, I've probably had a little too much to drink, so I'll order you a taxi."

The horrified look on my daughter's face said it all.

"We can't get a taxi, he'll never find us."

I stomped off to get a pen and paper.

"Write down the instructions."

And then I realised there were probably other kids in the area going. Kids my daughter had known for years. I would ring their parents and ask them for a ride.

"Okay," said my daughter. "But don't sound drunk."

"I am not drunk, I'm just relaxed."

The call was made, the ride arranged.

"Well done, Mum, you sounded completely normal."

"I am normal. Can't a woman have a few drinks with her friends without being treated like an alcoholic?"

The girls left. I sulked in front of the TV, cuddling the dog and torturing myself with images of my friends out without me. Bloody motherhood.

"We had such a good time," said my daughter when she returned two hours later, hyped up on her night of dancing and hilarity inspired by teachers taking to the dance floor.

"That's nice, dear," I said, just a little resentfully.

"You're the best Mum," she trilled, before planting a kiss on my head and floating off to bed.

"It's a gift," I mumbled, before walking, not stomping, down the hallway.