By 3am I was ready to call it a night. But the Spaniards still had several hours of flamenco strutting ahead of them.

It was obvious they wouldn't be calling it a night until it was day.

As I'd expected, and as Ernest Hemingway had warned, our weekend in Madrid to celebrate our friend Mary's 40th birthday was one very long tapas bar crawl.

Us Brits, who included our good friends Jake and Rafia, had our national characteristics fully put to the test.

"Que pasa?" said Carlos, the fiery waiter in the last bar we crawled into on the first night of our stay.

"Please, I've been up since 6am," I said wearily. "And I have a growing baby in my abdomen."

"Ahh, but he like the music. Flamenco is good."

In fact, the baby was reacting rather too energetically to the vibrations of a dozen dancers stamping and clapping and the brain-rattling lament of the flamenco singer. I wasn't sure if I was already in the first stage of labour.

So my husband, who could barely ol after downing a few too many San Miguels, took me back to our hotel, hiccuping all the way.

A while later a slight commotion in our corridor indicated that Jake and Rafia had also escaped before the dawn chorus.

But only just, and not in a terribly fit state.

We awoke the next morning at 10.30am. The half a glass of red wine I'd had the night before had given me a slight hangover.

My husband felt and looked decidedly worse.

But we had a busy day ahead and so stocked up on a high-fat breakfast of scrambled egg, cheese and salami while working out how we could fit in the enormous Prado museum, a walk around the old town, a visit to some sub-tropical gardens, lunch and a siesta all before the evening rendezvous at 7.30pm.

We were surprised not to bump into Jake and Rafia, but assumed they had either gone out early to do some sightseeing, or were making the most of a weekend away from their children and were having a long lie-in - or something.

By the evening, with just a fraction of our itinerary achieved and very little rest, we waited in the bar for Jake and Rafia. They arrived at 8pm, looking fatigued.

"You look like you've been busy," remarked my husband, giving Jake a nudge and a wink.

"Yes, busy being poorly," said Jake. "We were both up all night with D and V. Not sure if it was the tapas we ate, or the amount we drank, or something viral."

"And we're so cross about it," moaned Rafia. "First night away from our kids in more than a year and we end up both being ill."

"Are you sure you're fit to go out tonight?" I said.

"No," said Jake. "But if we don't make the most of being here, we'll regret it."

So the four of us - me heavily pregnant, Jake and Rafia in a delicate state and my husband still a little wobbly from the excesses of the night before - headed to Mary's apartment for a party.

By 2am the four of us were all sitting soberly on the sofa while the Spaniards were only just getting into their stride.

"Let's face it, this just isn't Anglo Saxon," said my husband. "There's no shame in leaving now."

So we did - without regrets.