When it comes to organising parties I consider myself an expert. I can book the bands, plug in the sound system, order the drinks from Waitrose – and even sell tickets.

I pride myself on attention to detail. But it all comes apart when I’m asked to organise my daughter’s seventh birthday party. Suddenly, I’m not asking The Severed Limb down from London in the vague hope I can fit all six of them on my sofa. And as for the booze run down our local Polish supermarket? You may as well forget it.

This year it’s especially hard. Because last year, everything went horribly wrong.

At five, children play beautifully together at parties. At six, boys discover they can seize your attention by throwing bricks and cocktail sausages at their leisure. The worst culprit is a young lad who, alarmingly, my daughter has a crush on.

I’d like to say I was the same as him at six. But it wouldn’t be true. The wooden spoon would have been thrashing across my backside in seconds. And I don’t care if your dad does work for Oxford University. I’m from the Oxford of Morris Motors and Pressed Steel. So act like a six-year-old – and stop throwing sausages at me.

Anyway, the CD player wasn’t quite loud enough. I’d painstakingly selected some children’s reggae records but we needed something the children could hear. Muggins here runs out to the Nissan Figaro to see if I have any CDs which don’t carry a “Parental Advisory” sticker. In the end I run the game of “Musical Chairs” to the cleanest thing I have – which happens to be Fear of a Black Planet by Public Enemy. The local vicar’s wife – whose daughter is at the same school – looks on in absolute horror.

Final note on last year’s debacle – my ex-wife decided the star attraction would be a number of tents, erected inside the hall.

“The children can play in them, and use their imagination” she argued.

Well, I went along with it. The tents were kicked wildly across the room for two hours. Then, while clearing up paper plates and vomit, we discovered a small child crying her eyes out inside a classic pop-up. She was weeping for her mother. As I approach party number seven I know exactly how she felt.

Which brings me to the point. Six months ago I was approached by a local mother who asked me about a joint birthday party with her child. There are seven months to go – yet she insists “we need to book the bouncy castle – before it’s too late”. I’m convinced you could book Led Zeppelin to reform and do a gig with that much notice, but I agree. We book the bouncy castle.

With a month to go and I find myself in Sainsbury’s at Heyford Hill roundabout. We’ve invited 30 children. Is it really necessary to order 600 sausages? We ordered 600 cocktail sausages. And then the subject of beers for the adults comes up.

What happens next is anyone’s guess. But I advise you to watch this space.

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