CHILDREN'S parties have filled me with dread ever since I was tied to the garage door and pelted with water bombs by a gang of pirates several years ago. There's too much pain, too much noise, too much cleaning up to do, and generally too much stress.

So the prospect of the little 'un's seventh birthday party, and the visit to our house of ten of his school friends last week, was not something to relish. But as the big day approached, it seemed that this time it might not be quite as bad...

The older ones decided they wanted to help organise their little brother's party. Despite his broken ankle, Christopher, 13, volunteered to be chief entertainments officer and perform a magic show to keep the guests amused after lunch.

Meanwhile, his sister, 11, played a blinder: helping Mum prepare the food, and organising the kids as they arrived. Jack, ten, even chipped in by supervising the bouncy castle we'd had set up in the garden.

Brilliant! It meant I could sit back and relax for a change. That was until 15 minutes after they all arrived and birthday boy ran into the kitchen, shouting: "Dad, quick, we need you to be a bucking bronco."

"A what?"

"Bucking bronco - it's a wild horse that bucks."

A cheer rang out as I emerged from the house. The guests had been expertly organised into a queue waiting to test their riding skills.

"Right, Dad," said birthday boy, "we have to see how long we can stay on your back while you're buckin' and snortin' - OK? Hannah's gonna time us."

Reluctantly, I got down on my hands and knees in the middle of the bouncy castle as the first cowboy - birthday boy, naturally - climbed into the saddle and grabbed my shirt.

"Three-two-one-GO!" shouted Hannah.

I bucked. I reared. I snorted. I swivelled. One shirt button popped, then another.

"Yee-hah - ride 'em cowboy," came a cry from the queue.

Birthday boy lasted eight seconds before he hit the deck - it seemed like eight hours. He was followed by Rebecca, who dug her heels in, popped another button, and stayed on for a second longer.

By the time I'd eventually worked my way through the queue, I was more shattered than last week's Grand National finishers.

Thomas, the most high-spirited of the guests, was the last to go. As he climbed on board, he grabbed a handful of back-hairs along with the shirt, and compounded the agony by saying entirely the wrong thing in a cowboy accent: "You aint never gonna get me off, Buster."

From being on the point of collapse, I suddenly had the bit back between my teeth, determined that Thomas was gonna eat rubber.

"One-two-three-GO!" With a single, more-forceful-than-usual sideways flick of my rear end, Thomas flew from one side of the bouncy castle to the other, landing in a giggling heap with a piece of torn shirt still in his hand.

"Wow - that was mint," he yelled.

"I think you'll find you lasted under two seconds, Thomas," I gasped triumphantly, dripping with sweat and declaring Rebecca the winner.

Mum shouted from the kitchen and the cowboys and cowgirls ran off for lunch.

"See ya later, buckeroo," birthday boy shouted as he went.

As I lay there, resting my aching bones on the bouncy castle, looking up at a cloudless sky, stinging with saddle burns, and reflecting on the fact that I'd have one less shirt in my wardrobe, I couldn't help feeling that being water bombed by pirates wasn't that bad after all.

Bad break update...

THE outpourings of guilt continue to come in following the public confession over my role in our eldest's broken ankle.

Diane Hutchinson, of Newton Aycliffe, wrote in to say how her daughter - now 20 - had regular "tummy aches" in an attempt to avoid school.

It led to Diane sending her to school with a genuine tummy ache, only for her to end up in hospital with appendicitis later that night.

Meanwhile, our own Hopalong Cassidy is still considering the legal position following our ill-fated sledging expedition.

"Are you still thinking about suing your Dad?" asked Auntie Kim.

"I might see if he wants to settle out of court," he replied without blinking.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

DOROTHY Ryan, of Normanby Methodist Wives' Club, near Middlesbrough, remembered the time she was getting her daughter Cynthia out of the bath.

"Rub 'er legs," said Dorothy's own mum, who was helping to dry the toddler.

Cynthia, only two at the time, looked at her Grandma and burst into tears.

"I haven't got rubber legs," she wailed.

Cynthia, who is 50 this month, has been burdened with that nickname ever since. Happy Birthday Rubber Legs.

A COMMITTEE member of the Whitby Conservative Ladies Luncheon Club, who was too coy to be named, recalled the time her grandson was watching an old film on television.

"What was it like when everything was black and white?" he asked.

THE same grandma also told of the time she was living in Africa in 1956 and was reading a copy of the Accra Gazette.

Amongst other errors in a wedding report, it said: "The bridegroom wore a carnation in his bottom hole."

Good job it wasn't a rose!