Competition on the sports field? You ain't seen nothing yet

It's hard to be judgmental about the English fans in Rome when I consider my own sickening behaviour at the borough's primary schools six-a-side football tournament at the weekend. Despite this week's dousing in "caring" values and the inspiring example set by Michael "single mothers' champion" Portillo, I found myself infiltrating the opposition's support and - oh, the shame of it - goading the local Catholic school's parents about their little indiscretion last year when they were disqualified for playing a child who was a brilliant footballer but who had rather inconveniently left the school to embark on his secondary education.

Evidently it's not enough to have God on your side. I thought they were trying it again this year when I spotted a chap with a beard running alongside the team, but it turned out he was the referee. Naturally I commiserated ("Nah, nah ne-na-nah") with poet Roger McGough, their Most Famous Parent (all the local schools have one of these to wheel out for school fairs - it's that kind of area - but as the poor relation, we've had to make do with the fading memory of ex-parent Peter Snow enthusiastically auctioning off bits of the Berlin Wall). But I felt well and truly put in my place when one of the vanquished mothers valiantly tried to raise a cheer for our side. My own reaction when we were knocked out of the next round ("Never mind, son, we beat them in the SATS league tables") seemed a little mean- spirited in comparison.

Competition on the sports field, however, pales into nothing beside children's birthday parties. The trend a few years ago to outdo each other in lavish spectaculars has been replaced by a new ostentatious non-materialism. "No presents please" was inscribed sanctimoniously on one invitation, making everyone else afterwards feel horribly grasping if they didn't follow suit. No one has yet been brave enough to ditch the basic concept of going-home loot (oh, please, please, please don't let it be my child that says "is that all?" when handed the party bag), but a lot of creative agonising goes in to finding alternatives to the actual receptacle, the nasty little plastic goodie-bag ("so bad for the environment").

My youngest was five yesterday (and it seems like only yesterday she added "condom" to her extensive vocabulary) and I was feeling quite confident about the birthday celebrations - "think Martha Stewart" is my mantra - until she came back from her friend Paisley's party, bearing a divine, environmentally friendly white paper bag, hand-printed with a paisley motif from an old Indian wood-block. Entertainment was a mixture of old- fashioned party games and artistic activities orchestrated by Equally Creative Father. To compete with this I would have to go right back to the beginning - not just ask for all our staff balloon-strewn invitations back but rename my daughter to allow for stylish theming. And a husband who got in to the swing of things would help - his contribution to the fun and games was to suggest that we give each child a travel card, tell them he is hiding at King's Cross station and that they must use their initiative to find him.