MY son doesn't drive very often, because he hasn't a car at the moment. Living in the centre of a city, with horrendous parking problems, he sees no reason to. He can cycle to work, or catch a bus. So, although he says he is sometimes tempted to buy a vehicle, it is a treat to be able to drive to places which he couldn't normally reach. On Monday we had a pleasant day out in North Somerset, with lovely warm weather, a countryside filled with spring flowers, and not too many cars on the road. It probably reinforced his plans to buy one of his own. Until we began the homeward journey. Now I've always had problems with Bristol. Its one- way system never seems to be going in the direction I want to go. Until this weekend I've never quite managed to reach my son's road without getting lost and having to make a humiliating telephone call along the lines, so to speak, of 'I'm outside a church with a big pink spire opposite a shut-down Chinese restaurant, is that anywhere near you?' This time, however, I made it without one wrong turn. I even worked out why things have gone wrong before. It's because I had memorised the route out of the city on the way home perfectly and had then mentally reversed it for the way in (please don't laugh, I'm a woman, that's the way my mind works). What I hadn't cottoned on to until now was that the way out is completely different for part of the journey because of the one-way system, so my reverse plan never worked because most of the roads I was aiming for were out of bounds. On one occasion on the way I was persuaded by my daughter to ignore the airport turning off the M5 and travel on to Gordano 'because it is quicker', which should have added 'if you don't get lost', which we inevitably did and had to make the 'we're parked next to huge a red brick building...' phone call. Eventually I sussed out the city centre, but only after going round the roundabouts more times than Florence and Dougal. Otherwise, I'm an innocent abroad in Bristol, so when we hit the first traffic jam I was happy in the knowledge that I was with someone who has lived there for ten years. That lasted about ten minutes; until we approached the Gordano service station from a totally different direction from the one I knew and I suggested that if we went round the roundabout we could take the road to the city centre. He totally ignored me and drove onto the M5 north bound. 'We'll go down the Portway because that's always quiet', he said. Not more than a few minutes later two things happened. We noticed a long tailback ahead on the motorway and, turning off onto the A4, we heard on the radio that there were long tailbacks on the M5 because of an accident and all traffic was being diverted onto the A4 which is the Portway. I'll not go into too much detail because it'll take longer than the traffic jam. But I soon found out that my son doesn't suffer fools gladly, especially if they're driving. Neither does he realise the futility of cursing, groaning, moaning and hitting your head on the steering wheel when in a traffic jam. Nor does constantly changing lanes get you any further down the road. Nor does saying 'I don't believe it' every four minutes help. And definitely neither does taking what he euphemistically called 'short cuts' do much good, especially those taken because 'all the other cars are turning so they must know a short cut.' We had one classic when someone we were following actually turned into his own drive. We got a bit further then hit other jams. We ended up driving through what I shall tactfully call a bit of a dodgy area where closing the windows and not making eye contact seemed advisable. It made little difference, most of the ways into the city were gridlocked, but to give him his due we eventually reached our destination after zig- zagging round back streets for hours, I must congratulate myself for not once saying 'didn't we pass that cafe half an hour ago going in the opposite direction?'

I do feel terribly sorry for the couple who went away on holiday for a few days and came home to find their house trashed after their teenaged daughter threw a party, attended by dozens of gatecrashers who were later described as 'behaving like animals'. Bit unfair on animals that, who tend not to pee in wardrobes and stub cigarettes out on carpets. On second thoughts cancel that first bit... Many parents have the same experience, although probably not half as bad as this incident. It's part of the job of being a teenager to stage impromptu parties when their parents are away and it's part of a parents' job to realise that however sincerely their offspring tell them they wouldn't dream of inviting friends to the house while the said parents are away, it is necessary that they don't entirely believe them. Even if they do make eye contact without blinking. The dilemma is, of course, what to do with them if you want to go on holiday and they don't. Because there will come a time when you children won't want to go on a family holiday. Some parents don't actually believe this, hanging on grimly to the notion that their offspring still want to grab buckets and spades and head for the coast. Now teenagers go away with their mates, and, if you believe them (don't), all their mates are allowed to go even if they are only 15. At one time it wasn't a problem. Families went on holiday together and nobody would have dreamed of leaving a teenager behind. They were probably dragged off to whatever by the sea or the costa del whatisit until they got married or moved away from home. Now things are different. There will be that one last holiday when the teenager, of a varying age, has to be strong-armed into going, and boy will their parents regret it. There will be the mild protests at first, rising to a crescendo when the brochures first come out. No matter what delights they are shown the teenager will find fault. Every country on the edge of the Med will be booorrringg. Every city, town or village in any part of the world will have absolutely nothing going for it. Not with parents in tow that is. Which is, admittedly, true. I can quite understand that Ibiza is not quite so interesting when you have to get up at 8am for a family breakfast and spend the day playing quoits on the beach with your younger siblings rather than thrashing round night spots blind drunk at 3am. But, hey, life's a bitch sometimes. Of course parents will suffer when they take a reluctant teenager away. There's nothing like a thwarted teenager for making his or her presence felt. First of all they will usually do a lot of trudging. Teenagers can trudge to Olympic standards. By trudging I mean walking some yards behind, feet dragging, head down, mouth set in sulk. Then there will be sighs. Deep, long, heartfelt sighs. Offer them ice-cream, pizza, halves of lager 'just this once', and there will be deep sighs accompanied by rolling eyes. Wherever you are they won't be one bit interested. Forget Florence, Venice, the seven wonders of the world. Only a teenager can say 'nobody's interested in Tutenkhamen's treasure'; as they trudge behind you in Cairo museum. None but a teenager will say 'it's only a waterfall' in Niagara. Try to make them lift their heads to look at the wonders in the Louvre and they will say 'whatever', making the urge to kick them up the backside even stronger. Wherever you stay won't be at all right. A caravan will be 'gross' because they have to share a tiny room with their little brother. Hotel rooms will be 'unbelievable' if they haven't got satellite television or internet connection. You'll need to forcibly search them to remove all forms of electronic gear before you leave unless you want them glued to various music and games gadgets. They'll almost certainly manage to smuggle an iPod with them, so most of the time they'll be incommunicado and staring off into space when they're not moaning. And whatever you do, don't think they're going to make friends with any other bored teenager in the vicinity, because they're not, especially if you suggest it. Oddly enough, once they get bored with being bored they will quite enjoy themselves, although you must never, ever make a point of mentioning this, even if they are playing beach games or crazy golf. Eventually they'll let you buy them expensive T- shirts or surfing gear, So it might turn out to be all right, that is if you manage to keep your boys away from lusting Swedish au pairs equally bored to be with their host family's family holiday or your girls away from glinty eyed waiters.