Julie Jay: I've never been to war, but I have been to a play centre

Picture: iStock 

This week a friend launched a guerrilla attack when she texted to see if I fancied hanging out with her two very likeable smallies, while she ‘went to the credit union’. Of course, anyone who grew up during the ‘80s knows that ‘going to the credit union’ covers a broad spectrum of eventualities, from a trip to the hairdressers to the pub, to eloping to Venice.

“I’ll take them no problem,” I say, less motivated by altruistic tendencies and more motivated by the fact she will have to return the favour on the day I also decide to mitch off motherhood for an afternoon.

“We might go to the play centre,” I suggest, and my friend makes a noise that is somewhere between a loud guffaw and a snort.

“Oh yes, they’d love that,” she announces — a little too excitedly — quickly following up with a slightly sinister “best of luck”.

We arrive at the play centre, and it is swarming with people. I push down my pang of regret and accept that, much like grabbing the last remaining piece of toilet tissue in a nightclub toilet circa 2002, it’s every woman for herself in here. I round up the troops (my friend’s two smallies and my own toddler in tow) and commit to ploughing on.

Once we get through the main door and cloakroom area, I am overwhelmed by plastic, plastic everywhere. The play centre is staffed by what I can only describe as earth angels, who seem utterly immune to the shrieks and hollers of small people running wild. Squinting, I spot my charges voluntarily climbing a rope frame at speed and decide it is most definitely time for tea.

The café is an oasis for parents in a desert of tiny, shrieking stormtroopers. Gasping for a beverage, I order my cuppa and debate whether or not to splash out on a banana. It is then that I hear a war cry I will never forget. When I look up, Ted is part of an impossibly huge army of smallies jumping from a plastic ledge into a ball pit. In a scene not unlike the opening moments of Dunkirk, these kids are just flinging themselves into the abyss and hoping for the best.

Quicker than you can say, Lord of The Flies, suddenly every child under ten has descended into this one area, the shrieks are ear-piercing, and things go downhill from there. Kids are screaming and a chorus of ‘Help, Mammy!’ rings through the air. I’m not sure who throws the first ball, but it is now complete carnage and unsuspecting guardians are ducking for cover as they retrieve their particular assailant from the melee. I make eye contact with a young man who blows his whistle with such gusto I know he’s seen some things in his time and make a mental note to commend him on his service if we ever get out of here alive.

Following on from the other parents who have bailed in, I reluctantly enter the ball pit of doom and immediately fall face forward, ending up with a mouth full of balls - OK, maybe just one ball, but why let the truth get in the way of hyperbole - which I spit out quickly.

“Man down,” I shout, raising my hand in a gesture of surrender, a sign ignored by the tiny aggressor who has just jumped on my back. Their little hands cover my eyes and I hear a familiar “Mammy”, Realising the aggressor is the product of my very inflexible loins, I attempt to stand - which is quite a challenge in a ball pit - before being grabbed from behind by two random children.

I am just about to shake them off when I am reminded that these are, in fact, my friend’s offspring, and so we trudge our way out of this play-centre hell.

So determined are we to get to freedom that my friend’s eldest has to tug on my sleeve and remind me of our shoes.

‘Forget the shoes! We can get more shoes,’ I want to respond, but instead we stop and collect our footwear because that’s what a real soldier would do.

Emerging into the cool fresh air, I close my eyes and thank the Lord we got out of there alive.

I drop my charges off at my friend’s house, who greets me, looking infuriatingly gleeful.

“How was the credit union?” I ask, fragile and broken after my afternoon trauma.

“Oh, great,” she responds.

I don’t comment on her new eyebrows because, unlike Prince Harry, I follow army codes of conversation. Sometimes it’s OK to let a friend win a battle, as long as you win the war.

Quite simply, she will most definitely be stung for a sleepover when I attend a friend’s wedding next month. The wedding may be happening in a venue 30 minutes down the road but I best book in for an overnight - you can never be too sure of the traffic. Yes, revenge is a dish best served on a Saturday.