WHEN the world came back into focus, anxiety kicked in as vague memories returned. It was time to go downstairs and survey the wreckage.

Not quite Baghdad after the Americans and British popped in, but the garden we had worked so hard to have ready for the day did look as if a small tornado had swept through it.

Yes, folks, we threw a party. A big garden party.

Like a heavy drinker's morning ritual, we had said "never again" after the first one, but that was years ago and it had faded into the rosy fondness of time.

What's the point of having a big garden if you can't enjoy and share it, we asked ourselves?

So one winter's day we started the planning and dusted off the old guest list, ticking off names and rejecting others: he's dead, she got drunk and wet her pants last time, he fell in the rose bed and tried to walk through the patio door while it was shut, she didn't bring any drink, and so on.

Now it wasn't quite on the scale of the Queen's Buckingham Palace bashes, but 97 turned up, some invited, some not. Guests stayed over on couches, floors, spare rooms and in tents in the garden.

"What's the occasion?" asked the gobsmacked woman when we ordered enough wine and beer to cause a tidal wave. "We're insane," responded my missus with a maniacal cackle. "Oh, and it's our daughter's belated 18th birthday party five months on."

Well you have to find some excuse. I could have said it was to celebrate my 21st birthday from a couple of years ago.

Now if you suffer from stress, never attempt to hold a big party.

Have we got enough drink? Will the food be OK? Will he behave himself this year? Can I stay away from the ravishing creature up the road?

The weather was enough to turn us old and grey. After some fantastic days last week, the forecast for the weekend was storms and heavy rain. In the event it stayed fine on Saturday, although it was cool and threatening. Despite hiring and begging gazebos, chairs and tables, where would we put 97 people in the house if the weather turned nasty?

There was the mammoth task of trimming hedges, cutting grass, strimming edges, and cleaning the house for those people who run a dust-seeker finger over every surface as they walk in.

We even cleaned behind the fridge. We decided not to wait until winter to change the bed sheets, and that old friend the tide mark on the bath definitely had to go.

The day before, the phone kept ringing with last-minute cancellations - sorry, food poisoning; sorry, we've got free tickets to Royal Ascot (I thought that was the previous week); sorry, got to wash the cat. But they were soon cancelled out by the gatecrashers.

So the big moment arrived and went. Half an hour after starting time, no one had turned up. Have we got the right day? Are we that unpopular? Then, like buses, they all turned up at once, a great, seething wave of humanity let loose on our lawns, our food and drink. Locusts are wimps in comparison.

And in the morning, a small mountain of leftovers - cans, wine and beer bottles, dozens of cigarette ends planted in the lawn to try to grow tobacco trees (despite an ash tray every four yards), and no one even touched the salad - again.

But after hours of excess by scores of people, no fighting, no falling over, only two broken glasses and two broken chairs - one overwhelmed by two married people (not to each other) who had their lips welded together for 20 minutes.

Oh, and they do tell me that in some parts of the world, it is a mark of respect to vomit on the way out after enjoying someone's hospitality.

All in all, then, a good do. But like the drinkers' morning refrain - never again!

Updated: 11:21 Tuesday, June 28, 2005