Carried away by the bubbles

I learned something new this morning.

I can't drink several glasses of champagne and two or three of wine without still feeling it at 3pm the next day. Ouch.

Apparently, when I'm at a black tie awards dinner, wearing high heels and a party frock, I can delude myself into thinking that I can still drink like I did in my twenties.

At least I didn't have to get up and look after a small girl and take her to a play park with her boisterous toddler boyfriends. Oh wait, yes I did. Double ouch.

Despite my stunned disbelief at my own daftness, I managed to find the energy to climb to the top of a very tall slide about four times so that Peaches could join in with the other children. If anyone ever wants proof that I love my daughter, they should take a moment to watch me playing with her while nursing a hangover.

My favourite part was when I got to lie down in the ball park. I make it look as if I'm lolling about in a jacuzzi. It's not a good look: it doesn't work for Chad Kroeger and it sure as hell doesn't work for me in a technicolour ball pit.

It was comfy though - and here's a credit crunch tip, if you can persuade small children to keep jostling the balls about while not actually jumping on to you, it's cheaper than a massage. Now there's a tip I should pass on to the New York Times.