ON our way to Florence this time last week for a three-day break - much cheaper and far more relaxing and enjoyable than a trip to London nowadays - we handed the camera over to our 11-year-old.

The idea was to let him record the trip, and for us to view it through his eyes. So let me apologise to the staff at our local Boots photo processing department now. For these aren't your usual holiday snapshots.

To be fair, most 11-year-olds would probably sum up all the spectacular art, culture and history that Florence has to offer in three words: boring, boring and boring. Their idea of interesting is not the same as ours.

While we wandered around Florence's main cathedral, marvelling at the architecture, the sculptures and frescoes, his eyes lit up only as we climbed the steps to the top of the dome. "Cool", he said as he focused on three-headed devils tearing men apart, limb from limb, and terrified sinners being hurled into a blazing Hell, flesh ripping open to reveal a mass of blood and bone in the Last Judgement paintings.

It was the same when we strolled through the outdoor sculpture gallery of the Piazza della Signoria. Michaelangelo's David barely merited a glance. "Wow", he said when he spotted Cellini's Perseus holding up Medusa's severed head, complete with bloody entrails, her decapitated body lying at his feet. Click, click, click.

The Archaeological Museum threw up even more hideous delights - mummified bodies revealing blackened bones wrapped in shrunken skin.

Then came the city's huge, indoor food market. Ignoring the fantastic Italian cheeses, truffles and jars of olives, he zoomed in on the butchers' stalls to take more grisly photographs of stacks of sheep's heads, whole ox tongues, animal lungs and brains steeped in blood. "Really cool."

Bloodcurdling as it all seems, we didn't mind. At least it kept him occupied and interested. And, hopefully, he learnt something about the culture. It left me convinced there is a lucrative untapped market for gory travel guides, aimed, like the popular Horrible History books, at young boys. But I still feel sorry for those Boots staff about to develop our films.

MOBBED by crowds wherever we went in Florence, it felt like we were in the presence of a minor celebrity. We were, of course. Italians love babies and our five-month-old Albert was a star attraction. Children are made welcome everywhere. And, as the mother of five I was made to feel extra special. How different to England, where people in shops and cafes run for cover when they spot us coming. It was back to normal on the way home when there were huffs and puffs from disgruntled airline passengers after staff said people with youngsters could go to the front of the queue. "Just because they have children, they think they rule the world," boomed one English voice. But in Italy, it feels as if we do.

WE set off from Stansted in the middle of the biggest security alert the airport had ever seen, carrying two large syringes in our hand luggage in case our 11-year-old suffers a severe allergic reaction. I had an explanatory doctor's note but, despite the bags going through the scanning equipment, the syringes were never picked up anyway. So we had them on the plane with us, which was reassuring - unlike airport security.