The summer term is now over, and so, too, is the event that strikes desperation and horror into my heart: the school summer fair.

Now, let me be clear: I understand that the summer fair is a worthy enterprise - I truly do. Many parents generously volunteer vast amounts of their time to raise money that is much needed by the PTA.

What's more, my son thinks it's the best thing that happens all year, with the possible exception of getting to go to school dressed as a bottle of ketchup at Purim. And my daughter sees it as a personal challenge to get as much of her body as possible covered with face paint, nail varnish and glitter tattoos by the end of the afternoon.

The problem is that the event only works if every single parent is involved (a fact of which we are reminded very regularly in the run-up to it). There's a committee that does the really hard slogging, but the rest of us all have lots of duties, too.

And the things we have to do require a whole list of qualities I'm completely lacking: organisational ability (I find it quite difficult even to pack a handbag to go to the shops); dealing-with-kids-who-aren't-your-own skills (I tried to be an au pair once when I was much younger, but quickly got seconded to cleaning duties when it became clear I had no idea how to deal with a resentful five- and two-year-old); and a general ability to think or function in any way while in the middle of a large, noisy crowd of adrenalin-charged children.

This year, as usual, the emails started arriving weeks before the event with a "countdown" list detailing what each parent needed to do in the days leading up to it. I dealt with these messages in a very practical way, which was to pretend that they didn't exist until the absolute last minute, and then panic because I hadn't given myself enough to time to carry out the instructions.

One of these jobs was to find toys to donate to the toy stall. I waited till my kids were out before rummaging through the toy cupboard.

For this job, secrecy is paramount. Even though I choose things that haven't been played with in years, I know that if my kids have the faintest suspicion that I am giving them away, there will be all hell to pay.

At the fair, one of my kids will invariably point to an item on the toy stall and say: "Look, Mummy! We've got that."

"Not any more you haven't," I will mutter to myself.

The next task was to create "jolly jars", which would more aptly be named "jars of resentment" or the "oh-crap-is-it-really-this-time-of-year-again jars".

"Jolly jars" are empty jam jars that you have to fill with small toys to be sold at the fair.

Every year, I panic at the realisation that I own neither empty jars nor items to put in them. Conversely, I spoke to another mum this year who said she kept jars on a shelf throughout the year, and filled them gradually with whatever bits of plastic tat her children brought home from parties and quickly lost interest in. I could only mentally bow down in awe at this strategy, as I rushed desperately round the supermarket the night before the jolly jar deadline.

OK, to be strictly honest, this year, I sent my husband to dash desperately round the supermarket… but I lived his stress vicariously.

And then, the day of the fair itself…

Each family has to do several sessions being in charge of a stall. You would think that running a summer fair stall for half-an-hour wouldn't be beyond the wit of a basically competent, functioning adult. Well, it's too difficult for me - so maybe I don't fall into that category.

This year, my worst half-hour was the one spent (wo)manning the bouncy castle. I am a writer and editor. I spend my days sitting quietly at a desk thinking about words. I have no idea how to persuade an over-excited, sugar-fuelled, six-year-old whose parents are nowhere to be seen, that he shouldn't climb up the sides of a bouncy castle and fling himself over the edge.

Finally, though, my duties were done. I bought a half-melted cupcake covered with an improbable amount of sprinkles, and sat down on the grass in the sunshine to chat to my friends.

As I gazed at all the children dashing around joyfully, engaged in the wholesome activities that have featured for decades in summer fairs across the land, the whole thing suddenly didn't seem so bad.

"Next year, I'll be super-organised," I thought to myself, "then I might actually enjoy it."

We shall see…

@susanreuben