Two little words that take me right back. Flashes of daffodils in the damp Lake District and Kendal Mint Cake for Mum and Dad. Dorset bunk rooms and a bar of fudge for sister, best friend. Postcards sweetly sent from home waiting for me on the post table in the dining room and those long, long nights. How I hated school trips.

Of course we try hard not to pass down our insecurities, don’t we, and so it was that when SM came home with news of a school trip, some three days after the start of his term, I replied only in the positive, careful to give an impression of excitement, not gloom. Wary about putting too mad a spin on things I spoke to him evenly and with interest about The Trip, allowing him to come to me with news and updates and letting him draw the subject out, just as someone once told me you’re meant to deal with sex education: “Answer only the question asked, then any forthcoming questions – never lead the discussion.” That’s what I did and it seemed to work because he reached a point where he was almost – almost – excited about going.

But Tuesday arrived, mean old thing, a bleak and very early morning, and no matter how consistently positive I had been poor SM was as introverted as I’d hoped he wouldn’t be. He sat in the back of the cab quiet and clenched, hot paw curled tightly into mine as we shot far too fast through the dark morning, all the traffic lights horribly green.

“Bye then,” he told me in the busy school hall, hating fuss, wanting to blend, turning his back dismally and shuffling off to stand with his friends, quietly ready for the sign-up, the coach, the ferry taking them all off to their Indonesian adventure. Dismissed, I paced three times around the entrance doorway then found a cab, and cried the whole way home.

It wasn’t all bad. For the next week I kept busy, making the most of the peace and quiet. I bought some gifts and a dress, saw two films with Mr PC, had one night out with the girls, spent four mornings at the museum and crossed a shed-load of chores off the list. Mornings were worst and last thing at night, and by the time Friday arrived I was two hours early for the ferry, jostling for a spot with all the other giddy parents, and when the glass Arrivals doors slid open the beginnings of a giant hoot went up.

Like air squeaking out of a failed balloon, we piped down as we caught sight of the first boatload trudging across the concourse towards us. Soldiers returning from war, pale-faced, big-eyed and pulling their bulging cases along, they herded patiently into class packs and waited for us to pluck them out one by one. Teachers looked shell-shocked, sand-sore. More than a few beers would have gone down that night, and well earned. SM caught my crazy waving figure in the crowd and turned his eyes to the sky, whispered something to his best mate and shoved his hat down over his face. Home, then.

In many ways I think you could call that a successful outcome. Rather this new teenage specimen buddying up in public than a frantic skid across the marble floors into my arms. He opted to sleep at a friend’s on his second night back, which was another plus point as I knew that the trip – with all its scary high-wires, exhausting kayak adventures, and older boy scares – hadn’t put him off nights away from home.

As for Mint Cake, SM came back with a pretty batik phone-holder and wooden bracelet, both for me, and a vicious case of Bintan Belly for him. I’ve yet to get a proper update but I think I’m actually a little bit jealous when you compare it to 1980s coach trips to the Lakes.