It was like a Milan catwalk show, only without as many tears and tantrums. There were some tears of course, and one very minor tantrum, but all in all I think it is safe to say that the school Easter bonnet parade was a raging success with the critics.

Unfortunately Naomi Campbell couldn't make it. She doesn't get out of bed for less than £10,000, so the chances of her hauling her bony bum out from under the duvet and dragging herself down to the school hall for a cornflake cake and a mini box of Smarties were remote to say the least.

But there were 52 other eager models more then willing to step into her eight-inch high Vivienne Westwood platform wedges. As they were only five years old, however, most of them needed stabilisers.

As the throngs of paparazzi arrived, laden down with video cameras, flashes, tripods and handbags full of spare films, and settled themselves in prime snapping positions, the compere took centre stage to make her welcoming speech.

She spoke with gravitas about the serious thought and hard work that had gone into making this Easter bonnet parade the event it was. Her tone was assured and professional, and she spoke with all the authority a woman wearing giant bunny ears can muster.

At her signal, music began pumping out around the room and the first of the models took to the raised T-shaped stage. They were nothing less than a living celebration of coloured tissue paper and haphazardly crayoned eggs, with a subtle hint of glitter here and there (mainly here actually, because 'there' was chockablock with fluffy yellow chicks stapled into place by their feet).

All went without a hitch for about a minute and a half. Then a girl in a particularly pretty blue bonnet was dumped at the end of the catwalk by an over-confident boy who was determined to hog the limelight.

I'm not mentioning any names here, but suffice it to say that the little show-off lives not a million miles away from me and has been known to call me (among other things) "mum".

While his partner - and best friend, might I add - was left to walk the catwalk in tears holding the teacher's hand, my lad bounced down to the front of the stage, danced for a while with his hands on his hips, wiggled his bottom suggestively at the headmistress, and bounced back off again to the unmistakable strains of "doo-wah-diddy-diddy-dum-diddy-doo".

There's always got to be one I suppose. But why does that one have to be mine? As we ran around the playground after the show fruitlessly searching for painted eggs, I was accosted about every five yards by mums wanting to know if I made him do these things just so I would have something to write about. Which is not actually a bad idea.

Then again, maybe a bit of zealous self-belief is not such a bad thing. I'm glad he's not a cry-baby like I was, or someone who hides under the table at a moment's notice like his dad used to do (and still does at the mere mention of the words "sister-in-law" and "coming to stay").

I remember vividly the stomach-churning horror I felt as a five year old when we performed our first school concert. I was a blackbird who was supposed to emerge from a pie, but who actually lay prostrate on the stage in a snotty, snivelling heap until a teacher rushed on from the wings and dragged me off by the beak.

I still find it extremely difficult to talk in front of more than about three people to this day. Unless of course I have had a few drinks and the people in question are women with similar obsessions to my own, i.e. George Clooney and quantum physics (okay, so I lied about the quantum physics).

Then I'll quite happily stick on a funny hat for the promise of a cornflake cake and a mini box of Smarties. Don't bank on getting a bum wiggle though. That'll cost you a chunky KitKat at the very least.

Updated: 11:11 Monday, April 05, 2004