SO there I was, my nose pressed against a phone box in Wales, doing desperate goldfish imitations to my husband inside.

Outside the neighbouring phone box, a middle-aged man was trying to get the attention of his wife - inside talking - and started leaping up and down pointing repeatedly to the logo on his T shirt.

A passer-by would have thought us mad. Unless, of course, they'd also gone on holiday and left their household in the care of teenagers.

I was trying to remind my husband to remind the boys to feed the goldfish. The man next to me - a complete stranger, but we instantly bonded - was telling his wife to remind their daughters to give the dog his medicine. The dog's name was Pringle...

Parents on holiday with stroppy sulking teenagers in tow, often think how wonderful it would be to go away without them. Not necessarily.

That's why you can tell the parents on holiday.

Superficially relaxed, we have this tiny but perceptible air of anxiety. We are constantly checking mobiles, sidling off to phone boxes, or, as we tuck into a perfect meal, pour another glass of wine, gaze at the marvellous view, we tend to say "And what do you think the boys are doing now?"

Bad move. What teenage boys left to their own devices might be doing, doesn't actually bear thinking about, and certainly not by a parent 300 miles away. Drink your nice wine and forget about it.

The trouble is, as dogs can scent fear, so other parents of teenagers at home can always pick each other out. And instead of having a wonderful break away from it all holiday, you end up swopping horror stories.

My favourite was the couple we heard of in Wales. They were sailing round Greek Islands blissfully unaware that, as soon as they'd vanished down the drive, their daughters had turned the family home in to a Bed and Breakfast establishment. To be fair, the girls must have done well because it only came to light when the parents took a call requesting a repeat booking.

There were the usual tales of parties, hastily-redecorated kitchens, stained carpets and suspiciously empty booze cupboards. We liked the style of two lads who had brought the wheelie bin into the sitting room for the duration so they could throw the lager cans and pizza boxes straight in without having to trail back and forth to the back yard.

Then there's the problem of whether you tell the kids exactly when you're coming home. Some parents don't, thinking this keeps them on their toes and in a permanent state of readiness. Are they mad or what? We tell the boys precisely what day we will be back and ring them on every stage of the journey. I don't want to catch them in action. I want a clean house.

When we go t back last Saturday night, the rubbish bags in the garage clanked rather a lot and there were a few suspiciously clean patches on the carpet. All the beds had been slept in and there were duvets and sleeping bags bundled in corners and all windows were opened suspiciously wide. But the house was still standing. The boys hadn't killed each other. The neighbours are still speaking to us. And yes, they'd fed the goldfish.

And now I know all that, at last I can relax.