Being something of a party animal, I rarely reject invitations to attend a birthday bash. Which is how I came to find myself being the life and soul of one this week.

Unusually, there was no time to head home and change. This was a straight-from-work invitation, with the warning that if you turned up late you were likely to miss out on any of the delectable edible delights on offer.

Actually, the delights on offer, fell a bit short for Timmy's taste buds.

The centrepiece of the menu was fish fingers and chips, followed by various gooey, yoghurty, concoctions.

But the culinary largesse did not stop there.

Oh, no. There was also an extremely sweet, lavishly iced, birthday sponge cake.

Anyway, the birthday girl, who had earlier nibbled on canapes of toast and Marmite, held sway.

It was in the main a finger buffet because none of them knew how to use a knife or fork. Spoons did appear but only to knock tunelessly on the dining table until they were removed from their clutches.

Yes, this was the first birthday celebration for our granddaughter, Agatha. I scheduled my arrival with a view to avoiding the worst excesses of this great day.

It meant I missed out on the fish fingers but not the cake.

In fact, I took some of the latter home with me, firmly ingrained into my jacket.

Birthday girl, who I had picked up to greet in my usually hearty way, had responded by scrunching a handful of soft icing and crumb into one of the lapels.

Returning her from whence she had come – the living room floor – I was soon in action pursuing Agatha and another child of similar age as they recklessly attempted to climb the staircase. Both are at that age where they can haul themselves upright but not stand on their own for long or even walk. I can empathise with them as there have been occasions in recent adulthood when I have found myself in exactly the same situation.

Half way down the stairs, a child under each arm, I had to negotiate Agatha's three-year-old brother.

Back on the ground floor again I discovered the eldest of our grandchildren, now 10, bemoaning the fact he had been missed off the party goody-bag rota.

Much gentle explaining was needed to say that he was now thought to be too old for the gifts being handed out.

He accepted the situation. Grudgingly. Then asked if he could come back to our place to watch a football match. Fulham playing Hull was not my idea of a great night in. But that's what we did.

Although when he'd gone to bed at half-time, frustrated by the banality of this appalling football match, I closed the door and waited for the second half to wash gently over me.

In an adjoining room, my wife was engaged in a spot of Brain Training on her Nintendo DS Lite.

Me? Well, I opened a packet of purloined party chocolate drops and some jelly babies, then poured myself a stiff milk-based drink. Cocoa, I think it's called.