Last week Warminster. This week Madrid. Yes, I'm about to go on another short winter break.

And you can call me Judith Chalmers if you like.

I'm REALLY EXCITED about this trip. My husband and I have persuaded my parents to look after our three-year-old, Eve, for three whole days while we have a grown-up time in the Spanish capital.

I've earmarked various museums and galleries I fancy seeing, while my husband has been plotting our exact itinerary for several weeks.

A lot of it seems to involve dunking Spanish doughnuts in dark, gloopy hot chocolate, a delicacy we first discovered on our honeymoon in Barcelona many years ago. Once tasted, never forgotten. It should bring back many passionate memories.

My only concern is that, at seven months pregnant, I'm not going to be able to experience the typical social life of the Madridlenos.

For as Ernest Hemingway once remarked: "Nobody goes to bed in Madrid until they have killed the night."

Or at least, that's what our Lonely Planet guide claims he said. If I try this, I might well do myself a mischief and then need to look up the Spanish for: "I think I'm having contractions. Please get me to the hospital."

I'm taking all my doctors notes with me, just in case. If anything should happen, I'd be happy to choose Pablo or Carmen as a middle name for our child.

Although we're thrilled to be going away for a virtually childfree weekend (I think the one in my uterus is already practising Flamenco dancing), we're anticipating missing Eve a lot. We haven't left her overnight for more than 24 hours since she was born.

I'm not sure I'll be able to sleep properly without her habitual, disruptive nocturnal demands, which include "Can you put my duvet back on me?" and (at 3am usually) "Is it time to get up yet?" Not to mention the challenges she presents to us every hour of the day.

Actually, I'm a little worried about how she will behave with Grandma and Grandad and how they will respond. My mother is astounded that Eve generally won't eat unfamiliar food (I, apparently "ate everything" as a child). They're also not well-acquainted with Eve's negotiating tactics (I, apparently, always did as I was told).

We may come home to find our cheeky, headstrong daughter has been turned into an obedient, omnivorous grandchild.

Although there's clearly a difference in our approaches to parenting, I'm hoping that my mum will notice that I have packed enough socks, vests and knickers for Eve to cover all emergencies. And I've even ironed them.

This means that I haven't yet got around to packing my own things. In fact, with less than 12 hours before we're due to board the plane, I haven't exactly decided what I'm taking.

I'm hopeless at packing, as my husband will testify. He's brilliant at writing lists, then checking off each item as he puts it into the case. I usually scrape together a bundle of things I think I need, chuck it in the case, then spend another hour taking things out because I've realised that I've put in too many tops and not enough bottoms.

Oh God. I've just realised that two of the tops I want to take are still in the laundry basket, waiting to be washed.

How does Judith cope with it?