My boy's small, thin, Israeli barmitzvah - The Jewish Chronicle

I have a confession to make. I'm not great at making a simcha.

You'd imagine I was an expert after two, but then we made aliyah and making the third in Israel was a somewhat different experience.

In the UK, I book my venue two years in advance. I discuss available parking facilities, the size of the dance floor and whether my family would have cause to complain about the toilets.

In Israel, about six weeks before the event, I sit bolt upright in the middle of the night, and yell at my husband: "Why haven't we got a venue? What's wrong with you?"

The next day, I google "popular barmitzvah venues in Israel", go to the first one I find (which happens to be a beach) and book it.

All my guests get lost on the way to the party

In the UK, I am offered a food tasting by my chosen caterer. I attempt to take as many members of my family as possible in order to avoid cooking that night. We discuss the moistness of the chicken, whether we need chocolate with every course and if we should have the lemon soufflé for dessert, as the Goldbergs served it in 2007, and God forbid they should think we were copying them.

In Israel, I book Moishe, the caterer everyone uses. I call him four weeks before the party to discuss the menu. He struggles to remember whether he has my booking. "SHOOOO-GARR-MAN?? I'm not remembering you." I panic slightly. "When is the party that you are having?" I tell him. "Ah, OK. It's not this week? So why you phone me now? I speak with you two days before party and the menu we discuss."

Two days before the party he tells me we are having a barbeque with Israeli salad and chips followed by halva and burekas. Sounds good.

In the UK the photographer shows me beautiful examples of his previous work, I tell him I like the "modern" look and would like the photos to be "contemporary" and not "too staged". He arrives at the venue an hour before the party so he can take some candid shots of the family.

In Israel, I recall someone telling me about a photographer they once used who is cheaper than the others and I book him. We meet on the day. I point out the barmitzvah boy and ask him to take a few shots.

In the UK, everyone plans their outfit six months in advance just in case anyone should turn up in the same frock. Enquiries are made about the shul's dress code etiquette. Are open toes appropriate? Will the rabbi's wife shoot daggers at anyone not wearing a hat? How short can a sleeve be before it is deemed inappropriate?

In the UK I google: "Plus-size dresses for middle-aged women that cover the arms, the knees, fat back and have the ability to make your boobs look three times smaller". This is the only time I forgo my beloved Primark - and only because I know my mum will go mad if I don't wear "something decent for a change." I find the perfect outfit in Tesco, tell my Mum I bought it in a fab-u-lous boutique in Notting Hill, and she says she can "really tell the difference when I don't wear those awful cheap shmutters."

In Israel, it's far too hot to think about anything except not sweating too much, so dress code for parties is shorts, t-shirts and sun-dresses.

In the UK, I provide guests with a map of the venue, instruct everyone to avoid the road works on the A41, and to leave "at least an extra half an hour" for parking. Everyone gets there on time, looking fresh and elegant. I have a pre-simchah cocktail and greet my guests looking relaxed.

In Israel, I email guests with a printable map, a WAZE link, and send out Whats App messages with further instructions and photos of the venue. I feel confident I have done all in my power to get my guests there efficiently. Everyone ends up lost on a petrol garage forecourt, looking confused. It turns out the WAZE link wasn't quite right.

I arrive at my simchah five minutes before it is due to start, (I used the same WAZE link and also got lost). I am sweating and red-faced, have no time to go to the toilet or get a drink. I spend the first two hours of the party apologising profusely to each individual guest for the mishap, and offering to reimburse them the extra 100 shekels of petrol they have used driving along dirt tracks in the middle of a kibbutz. They assure me it's no problem. It gave them a chance to catch up with their beloved family in the car. They managed to have quality time singing songs and hearing about what their teenagers had been up to that week.

You feel relieved, until you overhear them whispering angrily to each other near the buffet table. "I wish you'd listen to me next time we go somewhere, I told you it was left. Why on earth did we have to come to another Sugarman simchah? They're so disorganised!"

I'm relieved I've finished making simchas - for now.