Clare McVey Column: Warning! Parties damage your marriage.

Byline: Clare McVey

IN an age when there seem to be more broken marriages than intact ones, we thought making it to the two-year mark called for a party.

We knew a few people had other plans so we thought we'd get away with having a daytime party over the weekend. That way, people could drift in and out whenever they wanted.

We planned to do cold food and then have a few burgers and sausages we could sling on the barbie afterwards - for any late stayers.

But it soon became apparent that we'd be catering for 40-odd people.

We spent the whole of the day beforehand shopping, chopping and trying to find bowls big enough to cram the food into. And still it didn't look enough.

We had to put an emergency call in to The Ideal Mother-In-Law who said 'Don't worry - I'll bring a load of chicken tikka and some extra plates and cutlery.'

We had nowhere to store the food we'd made and by the morning of the party it was already beginning to wilt a bit.

People arrived. In droves. Family first - that was 18 people and the garden was full.

It got so crowded on our patio at one point that I didn't dare announce the food in case there was a stampede and people got crushed.

Besides, my fresh cream meringue nests had gone soggy and started to go off. I was worried people wouldn't actually want to eat when they saw them.

But apparently they did. The chicken tikka had gone in about 10 minutes flat and anyone who arrived after that was left with a bit of soggy quiche.

By 9pm only a handful of people had gone home and we'd run out of booze so The Ideal Husband had to go down the offy to re-stock.

Things were starting to get silly and I was worrying about the new neighbours (to whom we still hadn't introduced ourselves).

The music kept getting whacked up to full volume and outside Ideal Husband's family had started doing a barbershop-style rendition of various classic hits.

Meanwhile, someone thought it would be funny to send a paper aeroplane over the garden wall to where our new neighbours were trying to enjoy a quiet evening in their garden with some friends.

When we lit up the barbecue, it soon became apparent that the food would be in short supply.

Word got out among our guests (who by now had drink-fuelled hunger pangs made worse by the smell of the barbecue) and panic almost set in.

People were hoarding sausages in dark corners and sending out parties in search of bread rolls and ketchup.

We had to bring in a rule giving women and children priority.

As it started to get chilly, I was handing out blankets and fleeces and beginning to feel like an aid worker in a refugee camp.

Despite all this, our guests were strangely reluctant to go home.

After sorting out cushions, futons, airbeds and duvets on the floor for those who were staying, I eventually collapsed into bed about 4am feeling exhausted and frankly relieved it was all over.

'That was really good, wasn't it?' said The Ideal Husband. 'We'll have to do it again next year.'

Then he turned over and started snoring.

I had to wonder whether we'd make it to three.