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) throws a flour-power party.

Technically speaking, J's still only 4. But we were prepared to overlook that small detail this weekend when we threw his fifth birthday party.

He actually turns five during the school summer holidays. But as … understandably … he didn't want a Norman No Mates party while half his classmates were on holiday, we decided to do a Trooping the Colour. After all, why settle for one measly birthday bash when you can squeeze in an extra one like the Queen?

But whereas HRH's supplementary shindig is always a triumph of meticulous planning and execution, J's was a rather more amateur affair. Her Maj's Household Cavalry was unfortunately unavailable for our gig so he had to make do with me to pull it off.

Things didn't get off to a fortuitous start the day before. The supermarket shopping arrived early, the fridge went out of action and our acceptance list had mushroomed into a terrifying total of 26. (Yikes, maybe sending out invites to far-flung holidaymakers might've been a better idea after all.)

But all was not lost. I dumped a shed-load of chipolatas in the fridge of my accommodating (vegetarian) neighbour, got our fridge up and running, and fought back the urge to up and run that was gripping its icy fingers round me. My feet were getting as cold as the chipolatas in my now perfectly-chilled fridge.

But there was no going back now. And as it happens, the day dawned bright and sunny so I cheerily got on with the food, decs and party-game preparations which all seemed to go (a little too?) smoothly.

First off, I carved out a ton of sandwiches; cream cheese, ham and … due to popular demand … marmite. Who'd care if the guests would love it or hate it? Safe in the knowledge that the sandwiches would all be ignored in favour of the crisps, not me!

And what about the cakes? There were piles of caramel sticky things, oodles of lairy cakes (fairy cakes liberally sprinkled with e-number bonanza sweeties) and zillions of emasculated chocolate brownies (no nuts).

And there was the birthday cake, another triumph in sugar. A zingily green crocodile with tic tac teeth, jelly-sweet scales and cherry cupcakes eyes, nostrils and alarm clock in his open jaws. (I should point out he was a Peter Pan croc, not a reptilian terrorist.) Nigella eat your heart out, I was on a roll...

But oh how quickly things change. When the party eventually kicked off, I soon remembered that old adage about pride before a fall and all that.

The croc himself cracked in two, some of the kids were somewhat recalcitrant and then we had Pass the Parcel meltdown. I should have known it’d be my downfall when the TV listings I'd used as wrapping kept splurging up inappropriate images like the blood-spattered serial killer detective, Lady Chatterly enjoying her lover and … scariest of all … Big Brother stills.

Luckily, the kids ignored the newspaper, cutting straight to the chase of finding out what was inside. And … remind me never, ever to do this again … I'd put in some flour-filled squeedgy 'mood faces' inside each layer. And … oh the benefit of hindsight … the most popular unplanned-for party game then followed. 'Split the flour things all over the floor' seemed a rip-roaring success with everyone under the age of 6 as mayhem ensued. Pass the Parcel rapidly changed into Pass the Dustpan and Brush and the rest is all rather hazy.

I wonder how the Household Cavalry would have dealt with the fracas? Up in arms, or … thrillingly … joining in the flour fight.

Her Majesty would definitely not have been amused. I'm still trying to decide whether I was or not.

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