I’m not sure I have the hang of this parenthood thing yet. You’d think I would be a model parent having done it once but that’s no qualification at all. It’s not the same the second time around and I did things differently nearly two decades ago. A lot differently. I took my swadled newborn to my university lectures 19 years ago, creeping out of some boring business French lecture to breastfeed my son.

As there were no facilities at the East London university, I had to sit discreetly in a ladies toilet cubicle. I had good reading material thanks to the abundant graffiti on the cubicle walls – not the ideal location to feed my son but it did him no harm.

As for nappy changing facilities...none of those either, just the comfy cloth of the back seat in my blue Mini Metro in the student car park. Bedtime is hardest at the moment.

My daughter is able to climb out of her cot and the first time she did it when I had my back turned briefly, she launched herself on to the bed by the side of the cot and squealed with delight.

I now don’t leave the room until Betsy is asleep for fear of a repeat of her break-out routine. I lie her down, read a little and once she appears to be nodding off I crawl round to the other side of the bed where I can spy on her.

So there I am on all fours, still as a mannequin until my arm creaks like an old floorboard and I’m rumbled. I had another night by myself last Saturday as my husband was lured out by one of his childhood friends with the promise of some Oxfordshire-brewed ale. The friend travelled from Harwell to Chipping Norton and stayed the night with us, leaving his wife and son at home. The only prerequisite to my husband going out is that he doesn’t wake up Betsy or me.

A hard vow to keep it seems.

Bang on 3am, husband and friend attempt the mammoth journey up the three floors of our house, husband Simon stopping off at the second and waking me up as he attempted to climb under the duvet.

I was not amused.

Some loud muttering followed to which he got a very vocal response.

He then climbed out of bed and left the room.

Ten minutes later and still fairly unimpressed, I heard a grown man wincing and using very ‘choice’ words as he fell down the top flight of stairs and landed outside my bedroom door. “Good, serves you right,” I said, thinking it was Simon. In the morning it emerged his visiting friend had misjudged the gradient of the stairs in his self-induced stuper.

He returned to Harwell with an injured toe and a large graze on his forearm.

I don’t think he will be back for a while!