how late?

3am!
That is the time the clock said when I finally collapsed into my bed on Saturday night - I mean, Sunday morning. 3am!
And here's the weird bit...
No child had woken me up demanding I clean up their vomit.
No siren had gone off on the road outside.
No car had crawled down the road with its thump-thump-music blaring. None of the above!
And, Husband wasn't snoring! No, because he'd been up and about till 3am - voluntarily - with me.
What's this I hear you say? Have you been partying? Yes, I reply! Triumphantly not feeling geriatric for a millisecond. Yes, partying with a capital-P.
Actually, there was a slight geriatric moment at about 930pm when I realised, having quaffed almost a whole bottle of very quaffable prosecco, that I really needed to fill the bubbles in with some food otherwise I'd last about 1/2 hour more before I either vomitted on the purple walls or collapsed messily on the dancefloor - at which point I dragged my husband out of the party (which was a tremendous joint 40th (I know, ok, we're fine with that) of some super brilliant party givers who are also super lovely friends of ours...) down to the ground floor where I demanded copious mounds of bread and butter and cheese and my husband swallowed a burger like it was an inconveniently sized pill. After which, geriatric food requirements over, we returned back upstairs and proceeded to 'rock-da-house' till well after 230am. (Rock-da-house. That's quite a geriatrically sad thing to say. But it has to be said because 'da house' was rockin'.)
And at some point the dj realised that the requests for ABBA were outweighing the requests for any thing that resembled music so he kindly let us have the final request (now I can't even remember what it was) and then he pulled the plug. And like someone letting out the air of a balloon, when silence fell so too did my levels of energy and suddenly all I wanted was to be in my bed, contact lenses out, make up off, pj's on, eyes shut, room not spinning.
We had to go via a cab firm where apparently I roared with disapproval at the fee the poor man quoted us (Husband told me about this in the morning when I was feeling weak and vulnerable from general abuse) and we bumped our way up to Harringay, still shouting as though we were in the club with the music blaring in our ear holes (which it wasn't because we were in a taxi that smelt of floral air freshener, ug - I mean, do they really wonder why people puke in their cabs? its not from booze mishandling its triggered purely by their foul 'fragrant' mirror dangle things).
I thought I'd lost my phone so the friends in our cab frantically phoned the people left at the club (can I call it that? It was a bar, but it was also a club, and although technically our friends had hired a bar, it was so a club because we were there DANCING till 230am... if that's not a club, then tell me, world, what is?) and I drunkenly tried to recall where I'd last used it (no idea other than trying to see what the time was last time I sat on the loo) and then suddenly my pocket was vibrating and I was like 'hey, guys, I'm vibrating! Is anyone else?' - er, no, you thick drunk mare, its your phone. So it was. Phone found, we scrambled up the stairs to our bed via the loo the sink the toothbrush avoid eye contact in mirror at this time of the morning and then bed. Mild spins followed by blackout.

Hurrah.
2 days later I am fit enough to tell the tale.
And guess this? So, I worked out, this is the first time in over EIGHT YEARS! yes, EIGHT YEARS that I have voluntarily stayed up till that stupid hour of the night. Do I blame the children? Entirely.
I thank you.