I think I was deprived as a child....

Yesterday afternoon, I was invited to a party. I was excited, intrigued and not a little fearful. It was a 5 year old's birthday party.

Now children's birthday parties are something beyond my ken. I get asked to godchildren's birthdays but since they all seem to live 100's of miles away there is never actually an obligation to go. Consequently I have avoided this particular delight.

I have memories of childrens parties that I went to in my long lost youth. These involved exciting things like pass the parcel, musical chairs, traffic light jellies in paper cases, and my best dress and shiniest shoes. (look, they were exciting for me ok!) Ah, happy days. There are times when I am looking through recipe books and I see a cake shaped like a carousel, or Nigella's improbably glamourous looking gingerbread men and I say 'sigh, no reason for me to cook these things'. Actually, I realise that there is no reason for anybody to cook such confections - well not unless they wanted theur house and the entire neighbourhood to be destroyed by a pack of wild children on a sugar high.

The party in question took place after school, so no party dresses for a start - just school uniforms. In addition the sensible parents had realised that twenty 5 year olds eating carousel cake would ultimately require the UN and possibly the red cross. I had arrived stylishly late and found the worlds biggest carpet picnic taking place. Plastic sheets were spread on the floor and the mini destroyers were working their way through sausages and buns, carrot and cucumber, slices of melon, boxes of raisins, and then malt loaf and swiss roll. It was all alarmingly civilized. I'm pretty sure I heard two of the boys discussing the American election.

The parents were calmly distributing drinks and other such delights, whilst another mother took crocodiles of small children backwards and forwards to the loo. This is not what i remember? Ok - we never sat on the floor, but there was definitely nothing nutritious at the parties of my youth. If it wasn't made of sugar, jelly or chocolate it didn't turn up. Or I don't think it did. Have I made up my childhood memories? Is this how it really went? A civilised carpet picnic?

I looked around the room. A few wary parents were scattered amongst the children, grasping strong coffee and praying that their child would not be the Taliban at this particular event. They looked faintly astounded that a non parent / relative would voluntarily come to the party and one harassed mother confessed that her normal party policy was the slightly revolting sounding 'dump and run'. I wondered if I had made a horrible mistake and should have developed a virulent contagion that would have prevented me from coming? Was I mad to have come?

Whilst I pondered my own sanity, tea was decreed to be over. The plastic sheets were swept up with all the detritus of tea on them, and put into black bin bags. A cake strewn with candles appeared, was blown out, and everyone sang happy birthday in welsh, and in tune. Then the entertainment kicked in and I realised that I had been robbed as a child. I was deprived. I should have therapy and possibly a cash refund. I may have had cake and jelly, but I never had this.

Into the large Sitting Room came a swarthy and grizzled welshman. His cords were worn, his checked shirt clean but faded and his green huski waistcoat was newly darned and pressed. On his wrist he carried a SNOWY OWL!!!!!

Mesmerised children magnetised around him like iron filings in a science experiment, moving in a wave wherever he went. (Well, all apart from the one boy who felt that snakes that ate girls would have been a far better entertainment). The children were allowed to stroke the feathers and they gasped with excitement when the head swivelled around to fix them with a beady amber glare. This was just the beginning.

5 minutes later, Caspar, the barn owl came to join them. The birthday boy was given a gauntlet and a small chunk of dead mammal. He held out his arm and called out to the bird, which glided across the room and landed on upheld arm. There was the most perfect expression of joy and fear on his face. On the other side of the room his father had a similar set up and the owl flew, silent as only an owl can be, over the awed childrens heads back and forth between father and son. I have to say that I think there is a possiblity that the father enjoyed it more. There was a look on his face of a man fulfilling a childhood dream....

I didn't stay much longer. Not being 5 I couldn't go and stroke the owl and demand the gauntlet and I didn't want to see an unexpected sugar rush hit and the party descend into a madness of feathers, cake and sobbing 5 year olds.

It didn't make me long to have children - the whole thing had been organised with military precision and looked like hard work. But it did make me want to be 5 years old again - just for a few minutes.

You can't take an urbanite to the country......

One of the things about moving to the centre of nowhere is that you start having people to stay, rather than just seeing them for a cup of coffee, or dinner. This was something I was looking forward to. I had visions of myself transforming into a Nigella like figure who casually tossed together endlessly delicious meals, showed the glories of Wales to impressed friends and sent them back to their particular metropolis with a longing to live my life, not their own. Naturally this is not how things have worked out.

It turns out that my southern based softie mates all find the idea of travelling to Wales traumatic to say the least. It takes six months of nagging and cajoling to persuade them that they can make the journey at all and when they arrive with a vision of a Welsh Babington House, they are usually horrified to find that the gates have to be operated manually and that real sheep and cows have not been housetrained, but instead have chosen to use any road near said gates as a literal dumping ground.

The start of the weekend usually goes well. They are so relieved to arrive at all that this overwhelms everything else. Having invested in electric blankets that stay on all night I can be sure that they will not freeze to death before morning and I can then look forward to their reactions in the morning when they wake up and see the hills climbing in front of them, and not a house in sight. That thrill lasts for about half an hour. Then reality kicks in.

My sophisticated guests turn into three year olds. It's too wet to go outside, they are bored inside. They want to go to a shop. They can't understand that the shops are shut because this is the backend of nowhere and people have other things to do than shop. They want to go out for lunch and don't believe that the ex Little Chef is the only place nearby. They offer to help with the gardening until they realise it is a chore, and will involve getting wet / muddy.

In the meantime I am running round like a headless loon, trying to make everything look effortless - lighting fires, cooking, washing up and making beds - anything that will make them feel that they are having a fabulous time. In between I have to run outside for a breath of fresh air because the heating is on all the time to stop their thin southern blood freezing up and I am about to suffer from heat stroke. I drag them all out for a walk and they panic when they realise there really is no phone reception, and that there are no footpaths or cafes at the end of the walk.

They come home and flinch at the sight of the peaty bath water, however much of my precious Space NK lavender and peppermint oil I have put in it. By Sunday morning I am exhausted and thanking my lucky stars that they are only houseguests, not small children who I can't send away after lunch.

Now, obviously not all guests are like this. One of my oldest friends came to stay last weekend and is the epitome of the perfect houseguest. This is blissful. We had a great weekend, getting extremely wet every time we ventured outside and finding it funny, not traumatic, before returning inside for restorative cups of tea / glasses of wine and the general knowledge crossword. We explored tiny lanes that might have houses for sale at the end of them, and shared in the cooking / cleaning chores. We played cards and bitched about celebrities in the magazines that she brought up with her. She is always really good company and the definition of a good houseguest - willing to pitch in but also extremely happy to entertain herself for the odd half hour. She also understands that this is Wales, not a film set of Wales so has no unrealistic expectations. All in all, exactly what I had looked forward to.

This was just the start of my big social week which has been in the planning for many months. After friend number one, I had 24 hours for a changeover before friend number 2 and her daughter arrived to stay. I had changed and ironed the sheets and picked flowers for the bedroom, mopped the floor in the kitchen and tidied to within an inch of my life in preparation. I have known Friend number 2 since school and am godmother to her daughter, who was also coming to stay. They normally lives in Qatar, which she loathes, and which means I get to see very littl of them but they have been home for the summer and this visit has been planned since the dawn of time.

Unfortunately a summer of single parenting (her husband stayed in Qatar) had driven her to the edge of desperation and when I rang to check she had everything she needed for her trip she burst into tears and sobbed so hard that I had that horrible impotent moment where your friend is beyond miserable and you can do nothing but listen to them cry.

The upshot of this was that she was exhausted, depressed and driving four hours to Wales with a one year old was, it seemed to me, the straw on the proverbial Qatari camels back. I immediately refused to have her to stay and promised to come to London to see her at the weekend instead. The tears turned to hiccups and I could hear the relief in her voice at not having to set out on such an epic journey with a 1 year old and a famed ability to get lost on a straight road with no turnings. Despite being sorry not to have the long promised visit, I was glad that telling her not to come was a help and made things a little easier for her.

Guest 3 was supposed to be arriving tomorrow night, for the weekend. The ultimate urbanite she has been promising to come and stay for two years and this date has been in the diary for four months now. She rang yesterday to say that she had got her diary in a muddle and forgotten she was going out for dinner on friday night so couldn't come. I am confused as to why going out for dinner with someone she sees all the time takes priority over coming to stay when this was arranged so long ago, but forbore to comment. She has promised to put a new date in her diary which she can then cancel at the last minute. I am now officially thwarted of my endless life of houseguests and Nigella impersonations and have resorted to my normal slovenly self but with a fridge full of food to tempt the delicate appetites of guests who aren't here. The Loyal Hound and I are going to be eating very well!

All this thwarted effort at having people to stay in Wales reminds me of when I was fifteen and asked a friend from Nottinghamshire to come and stay. The day before she was due to arrive she rang and suggested that instead of coming to stay with me, perhaps I should come to her "as it was closer".

Need I say more.