With 3 boys under 5, there’s never a dull moment. Certainly never a quiet one… Buggy Blogger mum to J (4), B (3) and S (1) dodges the deluges at the school summer social.

It's raining, it's pouring, the PTA is gnawing … its nails collectively with nerves.

On Friday lunchtime, those guys must've been on edge. It was raining cats and dogs, the bunting proclaiming that evening's summer social event was disastrously soggy and it looked as though the guests would all be that way too.

But would we let a little thing like the British weather get in the way of our fun? Of course not. And after all, the occasion … for some unknown reason given that we're quite a way from Scotland … was Highland themed so having everything soaking wet would surely lend an air of authenticity to proceedings.

And so, with 'the show must go on' foolhardiness, the school forged on regardless. Those who'd donned kilts in honour of the occasion splashed manfully around the puddly playground. 'Toss the Welly' was imaginatively modified into 'Toss the hastily-procured Haggis' (we all needed our boots firmly on our feet). And everyone scuttled safely undercover whenever they could, the bar nestling conveniently under a corrugated plastic shelter proving remarkably popular.

Inside, the kids were in clover jumping their hearts out on the bouncy (Edinburgh?) castle. A clutch of Reception girls were giving it plenty to Rod, Sharleen et al on the school hall disco floor. And the barbeque … even mysteriously bereft as it was of the centrepiece haggis … was doing a roaring trade.

Meanwhile, tension was mounting at the cake competition table. There was a stunning array of tartan tarts, bagpipe biscuits and bekilted cakes. There was a St Andrew's flag, something that may have represented a thistle (or was it in fact a sporran?), and … intriguingly … a pink spotty handbag; an allusion to the thriftiness of our Scottish friends perhaps? And then there was the Treasure Island entry (presumably a Hebridean one?) liberally scattered with chocolate coins and tiny silver baubles; a bit of Highland bling?

And last but not least there was of course our own submission. B had done sterling work helping me weigh the ingredients, pressing the Magimix On/Off buttons and … essential job this … licking out the bowl. We baked the cake, carved it into arches and propped it precariously on our home-made 'rugged grey waves' cake-board. And then J went to town festooning it with green butter icing and jelly tots, chocolate-button eyes and After Eight spines. It was a sticky, higgledy-piggledy masterpiece; our very own Loch Mess Monster.

And then, in spite of nearly toppling onto the pavement en route and needing emergency first aid in the headmaster’s office, our pride and joy arrived relatively unscathed and ready to do battle Braveheart-style on the dinner hall trestle table. A dead cert champion we all thought.

But hang on? When the … drumroll … judging commenced it turned out we didn't win or even get a runner up medal. Had the panel been bribed by the pink handbag-toting money launderer? Had they been dazzled by the blingtastic millionaire’s isle? Or were they simply put off by our weather-beaten Loch-scape which reminded them too closely of their earlier soakings?

Sigh. Well at the end of the day it was the taking part that counts eh? And after all, I’m not a fiercely competitive mum or anything. Not at all. But if I find out which Sassenach took the winner's glory, I might just have to make them eat a soggy, hurl-bruised haggis for their tea. Ha, that'll show 'em.

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