SOMEONE said jokingly the other day that you knew when you were getting old because people stop inviting you to Anne Summers' parties.

Well, having never been invited to one anyway; nor ever wanting to be, I'm relived about that. Because if I was invited I would have to buy something and how embarrassing in a few years time when in my dotage and needing a bit of tender loving care someone was rooting through my underwear drawer looking for a nice respectable flannelette nightie and instead came across a pair of red frilly crotchless panties still in their packaging.

Over the years I have always managed to avoid any kind of selling party, ever since I innocently went along to what I thought was a nice neighbourhood get together. We had only just moved and I thought it was very kind of a new neighbour to invite me. And anyway, with three small children at home and little chance for an evening off, I would gladly have gone even if it had been a conducted tour around the local sewage works.

When we got to the house it was full of women chatting and sipping cups of coffee, nibbling crisps and nuts, and being organised by a blonde lady with perfect make-up who occasionally rushed upstairs and hissed threats at what were probably her own children sent to bed early.

Suddenly, the pleasantries stopped and the blonde lady went into an ecstasy of hard sell on dozens of plastic containers which she produced as if by magic. Yes, it was a Tupperware party.

She was very good. She had a spiel like a market trader and obviously loved every single one of her little plastic boxes.

She talked about the transference of smells in the fridge and how an innocent plate of ham could be tainted forever by aromas leaching off last night's curry.

She was way ahead of her time on the question of food hygiene, and you must remember this was long before salmonella raised its ugly little head. Her plastic boxes were, she said, the front line in the fight against Germs. Place foodstuffs inside sealed containers and germs were on a hiding to nothing.

We were shown bacon boxes and egg boxes, flat boxes for ham and tiny boxes for little bits of leftovers. There were containers for milk, orange juice and soup.

There were larger pieces for 'dry goods' and very large ones for things like cornflakes. In fact there was a box for just about anything you could think of. Looking for food in the fridge or the larder was going to be a long job if you had to prise lids off a couple of dozen containers every time you wanted so much as a sprinkle of herbs.

One of the best sellers, we were told, was the absolutely essential 'must have' large cake storage box in a variety of colours.

This large round box was passed amongst us and I felt like saying, but didn't, that no cake in our house was ever left uneaten long enough to get to any kind of box. Just getting it out of the oven and cooled was difficult enough.

After about an hour or so of playing pass the plastic container round there was a lull and we were served small rather dry sandwiches (which obviously hadn't been in their own neat little box).

What, I wondered, was I doing there? sitting in a room full of reasonably intelligent women talking about plastic boxes to put leftover peas in. Not only that, I was expected to buy at least one, possibly more, of these things. That was made very clear and they weren't cheap either.

I selected just one item, a plastic sandwich box which I knew without doubt would disappear within days and was unlikely to see a sandwich. The hostess allowed her pen to hover as I ordered, obviously waiting for added items, or at least the miracle cake box.

By her reaction I knew I was being mentally ticked off the next party list and my new friend who had invited me got a black mark too for taking along someone who was obviously not ready for the new world of plastic containers.

After orders had been written we all trooped out. I realised we hadn't seen sight of a husband anywhere.

I suspect he was in the bedroom, neatly tucked up in his own giant sized handy plastic container, designed to keep husbands nice and fresh until needed.

Talking of containers, I've just got in a lot of trouble for attempting to use a jam jar which apparently contained nothing but a bit of screwed up kitchen paper but which I am now told was holding a dozen stick-insect eggs.

Now to me the tiny black dots on the paper could have been anything , but who am I to argue with stick insect experts, especially if they have the time to worry about a small selection of what is probably insect poop being nurtured on a warm and sunny windowledge.

The jar was part of the annual 'I know I had a huge number of clean jam jars collected all last year so what have you done with them?' search.

The jars were for the annual frenzy of jam making because I can't leave a berry unjammed.

I can now tell you the six little words which can turn a perfectly amicable jam maker into a jam rage.

They come after you've spent half a hot July day trudging round a friend's huge garden being bitten by every insect known to man picking fruit.

Then spending most of the evening sorting the fruit, topping and tailing the fruit, cooking the fruit and then sweating over boiling jam far into the night, burning your fingers on the hot jars and getting splattered by molten jam as you test the set for the umpteenth time and utter a very unladylike jam-maker's curse when it hasn't worked.

The next morning there are a line of gleaming jars of new conserve and somebody opens one of them and says those six little words - 'It's a bit runny isn't it?' AAAARGH!