TALK about bringing the past to life... The boys haven't been on holiday with us for nearly five years now. Entirely their own choice. Each year I offer them the chance and each year they look at me with that mixture of incredulity combined with head-shaking pity that adolescents reserve especially for their parents.

And although I miss them, there are many advantages - not least the cost. Their holidays were one long spending opportunity (and that's without the ice creams).

The first time we went away without them, I couldn't believe how little money I spent. Although their father and I holiday in great comfort and occasional luxury, it's still a snip compared to having the junior shopaholics with us.

But those days, I thought sadly, were gone. Until Iceland.

The Echo Reader Travel section sells day trips to foreign locations. Wonderful idea I've been on a few and was looking at the brochure at home, vaguely planning another. "Iceland looks interesting," I murmured to myself. At which point Smaller Son pricked up his ears. Iceland? For the day? Could he come?

Of course he could, I said, delighted at the thought of his company. If one was coming, we must, of course, give the other the chance. And to my even greater amazement, Senior Son said yes, please, he'd like to come too. A double delight.

So Mum was going to Iceland, and taking her little boys with her. They even got up at five in the morning without too many complaints and when we walked into the airport, one each side, looming massively over me, I felt a bit like Madonna with her bodyguards.

By nine o' clock we were in Iceland. Lots of black lava, public sculptures, snowy mountains, eerie hot springs and a swim in the wonderful steamy and salty Blue Lagoon. A bit different from all those Sunday evenings at the Dolphin Centre when the boys learnt to swim. They still splashed me though, and tried to push me under - almost impossible as the water was so buoyant.

Then there were drinks and souvenir mud. Iceland is very expensive, but I'd changed masses of money into kroner. Far too much, but I like to be prepared for emergencies, and I could always change it back.

There was lunch, of course, and coffee and waffles and more drinks. Luckily, it was Bank Holiday in Iceland and most of the Reykjavik shops were shut, apart from those in the tourist district. Not even the boys could get excited about all those woolly pullies and volumes of sagas.

But then it was back to the airport and Duty Free shopping.

Heaven! Serious luxury shopping AND saving money. What more do you need?

I had nabbed myself some high voltage gin, some gravadlaax and some black pudding for their father and was standing, clutching the basket, talking to a friend. The boys drifted around the shelves, came back to me, went away again.

Gradually and mysteriously, the basket filled up. There was lager, chocolates, vodka, sweets, lighters with flags on, potions and lotions, little bottles of something strong and Icelandic that was guaranteed to blow your socks off.

My arms stretched from the sockets, I staggered to the checkout and counting out the kroner. And kept counting. Nearly every kroner I'd taken with me went into that till.

Some of it, they swear, they will pay back to me. (It must be something in that very clear air, Icelanders are very strong on fairy stories). But as we clanked our way onto the plane, I found myself vaguely reassured in a strange sort of way.

They might now be buying cans of lager instead of sticks of rock, mini bottles of schnapps instead of whistling lollipops, chocolates for girlfriends rather than grannies, but that is neither here nor there.

The details might be different, but when it comes to boys, nothing really changes - especially when Mother's paying.