Have you ever smelled pubescent boy? The unique aroma of raging hormones and deodorant sprayed liberally over unwashed bodies? I think it's something to do with discovering sex but not yet experiencing it. Anyway, try putting two or more pubescent boys together in a confined space and you'll see what I mean.

You could try, for example, a car journey to the country, as we did this half-term: grown-ups in the front and two pubescent boys (mine plus friend) in the back along with delightfully odourless eleven year old bro.windows all the way despite wind and rain, until we hit the country proper when interior pongs were cancelled out somewhat by pig pong, cow dung and other genuine bucolic scents.

Pongs aside, the trip was a success of sorts. Just getting there felt like an achievement, preceded as it was by days of whingeing and moaning, especially from big boy. There is nothing to do in the country if you are thirteen. There are no skate parks, no shopping malls and the country is full of 'posh, old people', the thirteen year old's idea of crimes against humanity. The friend was a bribe, without which the trip would have been a nightmare.

It was nearly a nightmare anyway. Shortly after we arrived at our cottage, loud croaky moans and cries began to emanate from the living room. We rushed to find out what was wrong.

"The TV's broken, the television's broken," wailed big boy.

"But it's on, it's working!” I exclaimed.

"NO, Sky Digital's broken, terrestrial's crap, Oh my God, I'm going to die, I'm going to kill myself, stuck in this place wiv no decent TV.”

"We can play PS2," suggested bro.

"I forgot the lead for the PS2," confessed the friend. At which point they all started wailing.

"Can't we go home? Please can't we go home" cried big boy. "I don't think I can stand it."

But we got it sorted out. The TV was fixed and a new lead bought at the local hardware store. By day two, the sun was shining and they began to venture outside. I rather wished they hadn't. That afternoon, the three of them disappeared down the lane to 'check out the horses'. I settled down with a book and a cuppa but within twenty minutes they were back hurtling up the garden path pursued by an irate-looking man, whom I recognised as a local farmer. Big boy and his mate rushed past me but I collared Bro to demand what was going on.

"They tried to jack his tractor," said Bro. The irate farmer filled me in. "I lost all my stock last year through foot and mouth and that tractor's worth £35,000," he yelled. "I just stopped them in time." It took a while to calm him down. Meanwhile, the boys appeared and mumbled an apology of sorts. I made a mental note to hide my car keys…    

The rest of the break was peaceful. Unless you count the car journeys when big boy insisted on playing his gangsta rap and 'garidge' tapes full blast on the car stereo. It wasn't too bad incountry but we disturbed the tranquillity of many a sleepy village as we passed through. Sometimes we'd drive to the local town to do the shopping. Big boy and his mate generally refused to get out of the car on the grounds that there was 'nuffin' worf buying'. So they sat there with the music blaring, hoods pulled up over baseball caps, muttering along to those charming ditties about guns and 'ho's' and playaz.

I know that parents and teenagers are supposed to hate each other's music but occasionally I feel I must say something about this stuff. "It glamourises violence and degrades women," I say. "Yeah but it comes from da ghetto," retorts big boy.

"No it doesn't. It's manufactured music. It's got lots of swearing in because it's designed to appeal to kids like you. It's just a marketing ploy.”

"Like Pop Idol," says big boy.

"Yes, I suppose."

"You watched Pop Idol. Now that's sad. That's really sad."

He has a point.

Strangely, by the end of our holiday, none of the boys wanted to leave. In fact, they asked to stay on for a few days. Some of this I'm sure, had to do with not wanting to go back to school. But I think they had genuinely begun to enjoy wandering through the woods and fields, jumping over streams, climbing trees. We'd just better keep it quiet from da rest of da playaz.

Rebecca Misell lives in London with her two sons aged 11 & 13.