It's a Dad's Life:I am slowly becoming accustomed to the peculiarities of the kid's birthday party. When it's not one of mine involved, they can even be quite entertaining. When it is one of mine, the pressure to provide and perform is unremitting, but fortunately we are clear of immediate family birthdays for six months and can sit back and savour other parents' discomfort.

The world of kids' parties can be competitive and stressful - any parent can testify to that. I don't imagine that it is a modern phenomenon either, although the stakes may have been raised in recent years. Now, bouncy castles and entertainers are de rigueur, but I imagine every parent since time began has just wanted to get to the end of the day and see their child beam their gratitude up at them for providing a banging day's fun. The sprog wants to be celebrated, the parent wants to give them that. That's pressure in itself.

Back in the corduroy 1970s, I screamed in anguish at the end of every birthday party my mother threw for me. I couldn't bear to have the guests leave, couldn't countenance the idea that the day was over. My mother became terrified of the party, knowing that no matter how much effort she put into it, I would pull my epileptic rag-doll stunt at around 6pm.

It's all I remember about those parties - screaming as people left. It didn't help that I was the spit of Damien from The Omen. Parents would arrive to collect their little Johns and Janes, and there would be the spitting, satanic Devil-child begging everyone to stay, roaring "Nooooooo!" No bouncy castles or magicians involved there, just too much sugar and high expectations. My mother, with a plastic smile etched into her face, would reassure the other mums and dads that no harm had come to their offspring in the course of their stay.

Around here, we avoid the castles and the entertainers by claiming both the gardens and the interiors are too minuscule. We ship the nippers into the hands of underpaid teenagers in places such as Leisureplex and KidZone and let them run riot. Alternatively, we bite the bullet and just let them run riot in the house. I am a firm believer that the most fun to be had is in simply running amok. The gaff is falling down anyway - let them help with the demolition.

Last weekend, we attended a birthday party in Terenure. The Missus's aunt was hosting it with her usual aplomb. She and her husband have recently redeveloped their front porch, incorporating three large wooden pillars, so we have unimaginatively named their pad "Southfork". The aunt drives a Saab, so we, again rather lamely, tease her for being posh. We rolled up expecting to be well entertained and were not disappointed. Not only were the kids looked after by a fabulous entertainer/magician named Ciara, I was fed and watered and told to sit and chill.

I was drawn by laughter into the room where the magic show was taking place. It was there I discovered, finally, the essence of the northside-southside divide. Ciara had all the kids in a semi-circle around her, and she was introducing a number of soft puppet characters from her bag to perform and amuse. She had just finished with a rabbit and was preparing the next, saying at the same time to the kids, by way of an introduction, "I was walking up here today and I bumped into someone very important. Do you know who it was?"

One sparky five-year-old pipes up, "The Minister for Justice?" Ciara looks bemused. "No," she says, "Davey Duck!" presenting the puppet to her sophisticated audience. "He's not important," says Sparky.

You just don't get that level of interaction in Ballybough. No matter what the PDs tell you.