Different Strokes: The politics of parties

Childrens' parties have lost their charm - they've also become dangerous and distressing social experiences for parents.

Parties for children expose us to the various social tribes we'd usually ignore or avoid at all costs.

Wasps (white Anglo-Saxon protestants) avoid the Lombards (Lots of money but a real d**s), who avoid the KBs (kugels and bagels), who prefer not to have to mix with the RCs (Roman Catholic Italians, Portuguese and Irish and the Lebanese), who in turn are annoyed by the Wasps. And so it goes.

I know two of these tribes well - the Wasps and the RCs, or what I fondly call "Team Retailers".

This is my husband's side of the gene pool. He's Greek and, God bless them, those Hellenes can put on a show.

The excess at their childrens' parties is unrivalled.

Except, I've heard, by the ''Indian Retailers", but I can't confirm this because I don't have firsthand experience.

Venues are ostentatious and usually hired for celebrity weddings or ANCYL conferences.

The mothers are tanned 365 days of the year, thin but with huge boobs and even bigger hair, and they wear enough makeup to terrify a drag queen. Parents and children alike wear expensive labels and too much perfume.

The children are chubbier than they should be and are never disciplined or reprimanded, possibly because they all have the same name. It's difficult to reprimand Costa for hitting Costa right in front of his father Costa (who is the host) and then knocking over Costa's ice cream.

Shout "Costa!" and the entire party will grind to a halt. Ditto Dimitra.

The guest lists are lengthy, the party packs gigantic, and if you're not down by at least R1000 for the gift, that's the last invitation you'll get. The car park is filled with Porsches and parents discuss business. The birthday boy or girl spends the afternoon ignoring the fire-eaters, candle-making table and petting zoo, and eyes the engorged gift table, praying everyone will leave so presents can be opened with their yaya (granny).

When it is time for blowing out the candles, four adults struggle to carry the birthday cake outside.

Manners are not a quality that Mediterranean mothers require of their children, whether preteen or adult. As long as they are good at maths and promise not to marry someone black, everything else is an optional extra. Speaking of which, there are no black people at these parties.

It doesn't get any better with my lot, those English-speaking South Africans from schools with chapels. Our parties are just as offensive.

The moms have all got sleek, blonde bobs and those long boots they wear over leggings like they've just got off a horse. Their names end in 'a' - Jessica, Sarah, and Ophelia - and they drive Land Rovers and Volvos. They are thin and anxious and are concerned because their husband has eyes for their au pair/ secretary/yoga instructor.

They're desperate to mix with PLUs (People Like Us) in the face of what they perceive as a tsunami of NOS (Not Our Sort); blacks, Muslims, Jews, Afrikaners, Roman Catholics. They would never say so (that's rude), and are at pains to explain they don't mind other people per se (after all, money is a great leveller), but there just seem to be so many of "them".

When forced to discuss the matter they resort to hushed tones and insist on mouthing "offensive" words such as "Jew" or "Afrikaner".

It's a great solution. You see, if you don't say it out loud, it doesn't count as racism. Bless, polite at all costs. These gals don't want to offend, but despite all efforts, they do very well at it.

"I don't mind them at all," said one elegant blonde about her son's black schoolfriends. "Some of them are delightful. But what I can't understand is why their parents insist on giving them names no one can pronounce."