COMING home after a holiday without the boys, is always a bit of a mystery tour.

Even when we used to leave Granny in charge, there were some inexplicable events awaiting our return. Like the time we came home to find a pillow - complete with nice clean pillow case - missing from our bed.

Who would take a pillow? What for? How did they get it out of the house without Granny noticing?

Who knows? Teenage boys presumably. But both boys, of course denied all knowledge and neither pillow nor pillow case has turned up from that day to this.

A frying pan went missing once. And goodness knows where our barbecue has got to. But we can all probably guess why the carpet shampoo bottle's empty and there are sudden startlingly clean patches in the sitting room.

This last time was probably a bad week to go away. After five months of getting up at the crack of dawn, working ten hour shifts and spending his week just eating, sleeping and working, Senior Son had finished work in the pie factory. He came home ceremoniously soaked to the skin in the final wash down and ready to party.

He partied all weekend. Then, just when the party might have been over, it was his birthday and he was starting all over again with another round of celebrations. We planned to go away the next morning.

"We're leaving early," I said "Just make sure you're back before we go." Visions of our Welsh holiday seemed to fade into the morning mist.

But no. He duly rolled home in the early hours. But there was just two weeks to go before the university term started, he had a lot of summer to catch up on. Meanwhile, for his little brother, there was just one week left of the holidays before life in the sixth form. They were both going to make the most of it.

"Are you sure we should be leaving them?" I asked their father nervously as we set out.

We rang home often and all seemed well. We gave them plenty of warning before we came home and, to be fair, the house was clean and tidy with all the washing up done

We knew they'd had friends staying, of course, sleeping bags, mattresses and the crumpled spare bed showed that anyway.

But there were other things...

The dining room table was in the wrong place. The big glass bowl that lives on it had been moved to safety in the study. Long unused LPs had been disturbed in their cupboard. And all the table mats were piled on the dresser. Table mats? These boys hardly eat on a table, let alone a table mat. I don't somehow think they'd been giving a dinner party.

The answer machine wasn't working - unplugged because the adapter had gone. And my bedside alarm clock had vanished. We subsequently found it under the television in the sitting room. Of course.

Miss Marple-like, I have my own theories of what went on. Theories that involve mixer decks and speakers and loud noise to annoy the neighbours. And so many visitors that someone slept on the sofa, someone who had to be in work the next day, hence the alarm clock downstairs.

I could ask them, of course. But there's no point. Better just be thankful that the house is still standing - and enjoy the mysteries of life with boys.