Open Writing

February will be remembered as a back-aching, list making month in our camp.

I always sigh felicitously as February fades away. Icy temperatures and hazardous conditions are hard enough to bear, but I also gave birth to two of our children during this cheerless month, so it means double celebrations, too.

This year our eight-year and twenty-first year parties were more than years apart. One was a happy informal affair, the other an over-planned, overdressed, not to mention overwrought affectation for a dozen grown-up eight-year olds. Not only have they to be fed, watered and continuously entertained, but they also expect to be returned home with gifts clutched tightly in their little paws. I don’t know who started this affluent habit, but I can tell you who has finally put an end to it!

The carefree days of dainty sandwiches and ice cream to finish are only memories. Food has now to come up to rigid standards – sausage rolls, patties, savoury tarts and various canapes to nibble accompanied by jellies, mousse, trifles and ice cream.

‘Jane only eats chocolate marshmallows,’ announces birthday girl as I spread my home-made confections on the kitchen table.

The dull bowling trophies a-tarnishing in the corner have to be shone to their original silver. I hadn’t realised before now how impressive they looked when clean, and even put one on display in the front window. It was just bad luck that the cup I chose to show off belongs to a bowling friend up the road. After taking it to be inscribed I still had to return it. This says a lot for my familiarity with them.

The party invitations ambitiously forecast a 4pm kick-off, and as the clock ticked towards 3 pm the first of the long-gowned guests arrived before I’d had time to clear away the baking mess and change from my working gear. The tension began. While I pick up the trail of coats, scarves, gloves, handbags and shoe bags, everyone unwraps the presents. By the time I return to suggest a game before tea, the dining table is half empty.

The most important part of the celebrations being over for our daughter, her temperament is now rising rapidly and we note that her lip is showing. Once the pickles and crisps have been devoured, they stand like food inspectors looking for bacteria. One cool blonde casts her bored expression over the desserts, eventually resting on the fruit cocktail. ‘Is that fresh fruit?’ she snoots, turning away in disgust when I shamefully shake my head.

One rule I have learned as we survive each party is to hide the television. Once they discover this, only a hammer and chisel can dislodge them. When their dresses start bulging it’s time for the games – but appetites fluctuate. With a little ingenuity some can manage to look hamster-cheeked all evening.

Children are nocturnal creatures, at their best or worst in the dark. Their favourite party game is 'Murders.' Off go the lights, then everyone has a go at being ‘choked.’ They never get tired of strangling each other. When everyone had been murdered at least three times, they were still at it. The only way we could take their minds off ‘Murder’ was to wheel in the refreshments. Mary Whitehouse would burn her banner if she knew.

Our teaching daughter read a cautionary tale to her eight-year-olds about the death by burning of a little girl who played with matches, telling them to write and illustrate this in their own words. One normally pencil-shy little boy set to work with unusual enthusiasm. After a short scribble he presented his effort. Underneath a drawing of a girl with elongated arms in giant flames was the inscription, ‘I like the bit were she died.’ All produced a similar theme decorated with gory pictures of flaming limbs.

Another favourite is ‘sleeping lions.’ The carpet is covered with ‘mock’ dead, the first one that moves is out. With a bit of luck and a lot of ‘blind eye’ casting, this can sometimes be stretched to home time. One child actually fell asleep.

They love anything connected with water. ‘Apple dunking’ is a huge success if you don’t let them drown. One year parents could hardly recognise their soot-covered offspring after a sooty telescope session got out of hand.

They seem to have preconceived ideas about fun activities. Long ago, at one of my sister’s parties a girl spent the time standing on her head. Nothing could persuade her the right way up, so we ignored her. Eventually we all lost interest in the navy blue bloomers hanging in the corner.

Another important rule is to lock away anything that makes a noise. Unfortunately our piano is unlockable, which means that budding Schuberts can try out their unfinished symphonies. One child who insisted she took piano lessons offered to play for a game of ‘musical statues.’ As soon as her sticky fingers daubed the keys it didn’t take a Rubinstein to realise her deception. Nurturing a sadistic streak of my own I let her continue. I still laugh at the memory of the poor dancers trying their best to struggle on as she hit the incongruent notes rapturously, for almost thirty minutes.

Boys are much easier to please. Our son and his mates used to eat everything except the print off the table first, then retire to the garden to play cricket. When son got tired of holding the bat they all had a good fight until they were worn out and ready to go whistling home. Then they graduated to a successful ‘speedway’ outing.

One of my happiest childhood memories is a visit to ‘Make Mine Music’ at the Ritz, then off home to a fish and chip supper.

We ate out this year for the twenty-first celebration. I hope this will be the start of something permanent!