ONE minute they're riding on your shoulders. The next, they're so big you can't lift them. Then, suddenly, they're spreading their wings...

Our eldest, aged 11, had begged to go on a school skiing trip to Italy. Italy? Times have changed - the furthest I got on school trips was Butlins at Filey.

Italy? I was instantly worried. Who wouldn't be? It was going to cost £400 plus lots more for gloves, goggles, thermals, new jacket, skiing lessons and spends. Italy? This is a boy who only eats chips for goodness sake.

The worrying got worse. The day before he was due to leave, I had lunch with someone who gleefully announced: "Paul couldn't come - he broke his leg skiing. Snapped like a twig."

When the big day dawned, the boy was subdued, and Mum was fretting about whether he'd be warm enough. Me? I was just worrying in my own quiet, dad-like way.

Then he came downstairs with his packed suitcase and made a startling announcement: "In case anything goes wrong, I've made a will. Hannah can have my bedroom, the Playstation is Jack's, and Max can have Winnie (his beloved old teddy)."

Naturally, I was upset. After all, he hadn't left me anything - and I really like his giant Simpsons poster. Jack, with a typical boy's sense of the macabre, made matters worse by repeatedly playing The Death March on his miniature organ.

Meanwhile, Grandad - history's greatest worrier - rang and made it worse still: "Tell him not to go up on deck on the ferry. It's windy - he'll get blown off. And tell him to stay away from cliff-edges."

An hour before departure time, the skiing holiday really started accelerating downhill. I'd gone to the railway station to collect Grandma who wanted to wave him off. The train she was supposed to have caught arrived without her. It transpired that she'd missed it and was catching a bus nearly an hour later.

Amid the confusion, my mobile went off. It was Mum, panicking: "Christopher's lost his euros." He'd had them in an envelope but they'd inexplicably vanished overnight. By the time I'd raced to the Post Office to buy replacement euros, then picked up Grandma from the bus stop, my blood pressure was higher than a snow-capped peak. With seconds to spare, we got to school and watched the coach go through misty eyes.

It was the longest week, broken up by several eagerly-awaited telephone calls as his home-sickness got progressively worse. The food was "totally gross" and he missed everyone - even Jack.

After what seemed more like a month, he was finally homeward-bound and there was one last call from a service station near Grantham: "This is an automated reverse charge call from... Christopher Barron... If you accept the call say 'YES' after the long tone."

"YES," I shouted, only for the robot-woman to say: "I heard 'YES'. Is that correct?"

I felt like yelling: "Oh for God's sake, put him through, you stupid woman," but I just said 'YES' again.

"Hi Dad. I'm back in England," I heard him say.

Two hours later, the coach pulled into the school grounds and he emerged with a smile brighter than a ski slope. Back at the house, the walls were festooned with lovingly-made "Welcome home" posters, and Mum had made a special dinner to make up for all the totally gross Italian grub.

He'd survived the wind-lashed ferry crossing and steered clear of perilous cliff-edges. The will wouldn't be needed - and it wasn't long before familiar shouts filled the house: "GET OUT OF MY BEDROOM!" and "STAY OFF THE PLAYSTATION - OR ELSE."

Normality is a wonderful thing.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

"JACK, come and turn your bedroom light off," shouted Mum. "I'm sick of you leaving it on - wherever you are, I'm going to make you come up and turn it off."

"What if I'm in America?" replied Jack

Published: 28/02/02