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Monday 9 November 2009

Status anxiety

The angst of grown-up social life is as nothing compared to children’s parties

Toby Young on the social pitfalls of your child's birthday party

Take the venue where the celebration is held. Until recently, the grandest party Ludo had been to was at Bramley’s, an indoor adventure playground on the wrong side of Holland Park Avenue. The staff supplied each child with a plateful of chicken nuggets and a Mini Milk, before sending them home with a balloon on a stick. Ludo couldn’t have been happier. Indeed, for several weeks afterwards I was able to persuade him to perform any number of onerous tasks by promising to hold his own party there next year.

Now, unfortunately, he’s had a glimpse of how the other half lives. The smartest party Ludo has attended since starting nursery was held in a communal garden in Notting Hill. Or, rather, it had been a communal garden before a ‘party planner’ had transformed it into an amusement park. There were bouncy castles, funfair rides, haunted houses — it looked like Michael Jackson’s Neverland. The children’s entertainer — who, I swear to God, was a member of The Wiggles — performed on a purpose-built stage at one end of the garden, while at the other end two sets of caterers — one for the children, one for the adults — went about their work. These days, the only way I can get Ludo to do anything is to threaten to hold his birthday party at Bramley’s.

Of course, not all the parents at Ludo’s school go to these lengths. Some are perfectly happy to hold parties in their own gardens, usually between the lily pond and the heliport. Having the party catered isn’t de rigueur, either. I know of several mums who’ve had the food prepared off-site and then discreetly shipped in, thereby giving the impression that they’re domestic goddesses. One yummy mummy ordered a Peppa Pig cake from a famous cake-maker in Oxfordshire, then, at the last minute, had them make two just in case one got damaged in transit. Both cakes survived the journey so she donated the spare one to Great Ormond Street Hospital.

It has taken me a while to adapt to this Brave New World. The first time I took Ludo to one of these jamborees I thought it would be perfectly acceptable to buy something from the pound shop on Shepherd’s Bush Road. When I asked the boy’s mother where to deposit my present she gestured towards a trestle table that was piled high with gift-wrapped boxes. It looked like Santa’s sleigh on the night before Christmas. I was so embarrassed I popped into the loo and removed the label that identified the set of dinosaur stickers I’d brought as being from Ludo. My hope was that at least one of the people in attendance would have forgotten to attach a card to their gift, thereby leaving open the possibility that I’d given something more expensive. Sure enough, a week later I got a letter thanking me for the Playstation 3.

God knows how I’m going to compete when Ludo’s birthday comes around. The nearest thing to a communal garden in my neck of the woods is Shepherd’s Bush Green. I suppose I could devise a party game that involves betting on one of the notorious dogfights that take place there round the clock, but the yummy mummies might not approve. Perhaps the answer is to organise a party in my own garden — all 10 square feet of it — then ring up the parents the day before and warn them that Ludo’s come down with a bout of vomiting and diarrhoea. (‘I’m not cancelling the party or anything, but I thought you ought to know.’) With a bit of luck, not a single one of his classmates will turn up.

Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator.

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