LAST night I did something that I haven't done since I was a teenager.

No, I didn't attempt to make passionate love in the back of a Hillman Imp although being a middle-aged housewife with only the weekly re-runs of Sex and the City to look forward to, I wouldn't pass up the chance (in a marginally more spacious car, however).

Nor did I hang around at the bus stop with my mates chewing gum and discussing which boys I fancied, although now that I'm living out of town I can be regularly spotted at our local brick-built shelter cursing the supposed 'every-ten-minutes' service when a vehicle fails to materialise after half-an hour.

I rediscovered my youth by going out to babysit. My friends forgot to make arrangements on the night of a 40th birthday party (is it really something to celebrate?) and asked me to look after their two young sons.

I was only too happy to oblige and as I agreed the memories came flooding back. Some nights the telephone at our house would be red hot as couples with young children would literally bid for my services while they let their hair down at parties, barbecues and every other social function you could possibly imagine.

I would turn up, not knowing a thing about childcare - after all I was just a child myself.

Older children aged about six or seven must have thought I was some kind of fairy godmother, letting them build dens in the garden until well after their bed time and leap off the tops of their wardrobes on to the mattress.

Younger children were usually in bed when I arrived, needing only a story, and babies (yes, as a schoolgirl with not one qualification to her name I was given sole responsibility for newborns) were often fast asleep. On the couple of occasions when they woke up I roped in my mother, who was not too pleased to be summoned to the posh executive estate (which is where 99 per cent of babysitting jobs were located) in the middle of the night to prepare feeds for a stranger's child.

So, with this wealth of experience behind me, plus the fact that I now have my own children, I should have had few qualms about the task ahead.

However, as soon as I said I would do it, I began to worry. How would I get them (two boys, I've got girls, a totally different kettle of fish) to bed?

What if they were on their PlayStation? How many hours would it take me to prise them off the latest 'Visitation of Doom' CD? I was racked with worry.

In my youth I wouldn't have batted an eyelid. I'd have turned up, really blas, eager to earn some money for shopping trips to Middlesbrough. But as an adult and mother it was different.

Knowing how precious children are - something I was oblivious to in my youth - filled me with anxiety. What would happen if one of the boys had an accident while I was looking after them, or became ill with a fever or started to cry?

I arrived on the night to find them, aged already in bed. Aged eight and five, they are polite, well-behaved children and I instantly knew that things would be fine. They read for a while then went to sleep when I turned off their light - I'd never have achieved that with my daughters.

I knew where their parents had gone, but panicked a little when I realised that they I hadn't got a contact number in event of emergency. I made myself a cup of tea to calm my nerves and sat down in front of the TV with my feet up - something I rarely do at home - and relaxed for three whole hours. That was and still is the best thing about babysitting and I'm definitely in the market for more.