THE holiday had been going so well. Two whole weeks in Italy and, aside from the odd outburst of brotherly bickering, there had been no major rows, no breakages, no trips to hospital, not even a highly charged argument over map reading after getting lost in the middle of nowhere.

This was unlike any other family holiday with our five boys. We chilled out. We relaxed. Everything went smoothly. That was until the last day.

I knew it had felt too good to be true.

We set off early for the airport, allowing time to fill our hired minibus with petrol before returning it. Last year, we were charged an extortionate amount by the hire car company because it wasn’t quite full: “They’re not going to catch me out like that again,” said my husband, still fuming over the bill he had been sent.

As it was, we had been slapped with a fine of 68 euros when we exited the toll motorway because we didn’t have a ticket. We tried to explain to the non-English speaking attendant that the toll machine where we entered had been faulty and no cars in our line had got tickets, but he just shrugged, handed us our fine and waved us on.

I looked into the back, where the boys, all plugged into various electronic devices, appeared oblivious to what was going on.

When we finally pulled into a garage close to the airport, every pump had a note stuck on it saying there was no diesel. We drove several miles farther on, to the next petrol station, which was closed, but had a 24-hour card payment pump. It didn’t work.

WE drove many more miles, until we came to another station, also closed, even though it was Saturday afternoon. It had a machine which accepted cash only and took our 20 euro note, but wouldn’t give us any diesel. I could have sworn I saw steam coming out of my husband’s ears.

Having used half a tank of fuel searching for fuel, we ended up turning around and driving into the centre of Pisa, where we came across a number of other frustrated English tourists, all trying a succession of closed petrol stations with payment machines which wouldn’t accept cards or ate our money without releasing petrol.

I looked into the back again. Some of the boys appeared to be asleep.

Others were listening to music through their headphones. At least they weren’t rowing.

But as we drove around a complicated one-way system in heavy traffic, we were running out of time. We finally came to a petrol station which actually had an attendant, who was helping a succession of tourists at the cash only machine.

As I anxiously watched the clock, my husband, who by now had sweat dripping off his brow, was feeding money in stages into the ‘no change’ cash machine while we checked the tank. It took four goes to fill it up.

With not much time until check-in was due to close, he dropped us with the luggage outside the airport while he dashed to join the queues at the hire car return, saying he would catch us up.

The boys casually unplugged their headphones as they got out of the car. “This is what I hate about our holidays. It’s always so stressful,”

one of them remarked.

“But you’ve just spent a couple of hours dozing and listening to music while you’re driven to your destination.

What’s so stressful about that?”

I asked, as I searched for all the passports and boarding passes in my bag.

“But we have to watch you panicking and getting in a flap in the front,” he said. It had all clearly been too much for them.

Life can be so hard when you’re a teenager.

GRANNY couldn’t wait to fill us in on all the news when we got back.

She was particularly pleased to report that one grandchild had got an “extinction” in her exams.

AFTER so many late nights on holiday, I warned ten-year-old Albert that he would have to go to bed earlier now he was home and school was about to start again.

But he wanted to stay up and watch something on TV. “Okay, but only if you promise to have a lie-in in the morning,” I relented.

“Do I have to?” he wailed. “I hate lie-ins.” How unlike his big brothers, who struggle to get up any time before midday. Just give him a few years...

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