NO MORE chocolate rice crispy buns, bowls of popcorn, bottles of fizzy drinks, paper plates or birthday hats. No more sticky fingerprints on doors, squashed buns on the carpet, spilled 7 Up on the couch. No more pass the parcel, musical chairs, or red faced, over excited children charging through the house.

The annual bunfights have come to an end. Our daughter has grown up. She's nine years of age and birthday parties at home are no longer cool. This year, 20 party invitations (girls only, of course) went unwritten; the cats were saddened by the lack of left over bounty and we were faintly relieved that the house would not have to endure another onslaught.

A sea change had taken place with the beginning of the new year. Her friend's birthdays are thickly clustered in January. Laura (i.e. her parents) took four friends to Dublin where they went ice skating and to McDonalds. Mary's long-suffering parents took six nine-year-olds to Dublin and they went bowling and to McDonalds. Jane took them to see Babe in Dublin and, yes, you've guessed it, to McDonalds.

Last week, it was our turn. It was obvious that a trip to Dublin was essential, but what would it be? The puppet theatre was greeted by drawn-out moans and eyes thrown up to heaven (for heaven's sake, they were far too old). We obviously couldn't go to the pictures, bowling or ice-skating as these had had their day.

Inspiration struck. There was a children's play, The Adventures of Shay Mouse, on at the Peacock. We had already been to it, as a respite from the sales, but our daughter was keen to go again.

ON THE day, the four chosen ones watched the antics of Shay and his friends with wide eyes and open mouths. The departure of two tinies, sobbing with fright (the rats were VERY scary) added to the enjoyment. OK, The Arts Show had given it a bad review but Shay Mouse was very much to the taste of our rural birthday participants. Afterwards, I have to confess, we went to McDonalds.

This year's birthday presents also marked a change. Toys were out. Our daughter wanted Roald Dahl's autobiography, Boy, and £10 to open a savings account in the post office. From her friends she got suitably grown-up offerings such as a matching black chenille hat and gloves, a small black back pack, a picture frame and a jewellery box. Aunts and uncles prudently enclosed five pound notes or book tokens in birthday cards. A packet of wild-flower seeds that came with one birthday card, telling of the possible extinction of various species of flowers, was a definite winner.

OK, it wasn't all grown-up stuff. We did have a birthday cake with those candles that keep relighting no matter how hard you blow them out. And, yes, it seemed as if we laughed loudest but you must remember that we're not yet used to being the parents of such a grown-up child.