‘WE HADN’T been on holiday without our children since the youngest, Jack, was born 11 years ago. But last summer, Jack decided he’d rather stay with his friend than go on a boring holiday with us, and our older daughter was also away.

It was strange leaving them, but as soon as my husband, Adam, and I arrived in our vine-covered Italian villa, we felt completely relaxed. More than relaxed... liberated. We love our two dearly, of course, but the sheer joy of not having anyone shouting “mummy, mummy, mummy” the whole time was, well... wow.

Adam and I rediscovered each other – holding hands, playing silly practical jokes, sharing baths and spoon-feeding each other puddings. We were as slushy as the ice cream we left by the bed.

Our villa was in a deserted hilltop hamlet about half an hour north of Lucca. It was a tall, narrow converted farm building with steep winding staircases and rooms spread over four storeys. The floors were covered with terracotta tiles, and there were sharp corners and narrow passageways all over the place. The owners weren’t keen on soft furnishings. It took a bit of getting used to, but, for us, it was all part of the rustic charm.

On one particularly memorable afternoon, out on the terrace, we finished a whole bottle of prosecco with our lunch of prosciutto, mozzarella and tomato.

Only people with kids will understand what a luxury that was. By the time we’d finished, the temperature had soared to 42C and we had to retreat inside.

We hopped into our small shower together to cool down. Again, a luxury, and an unfamiliar one, so things soon became quite steamy. Perhaps the freedom was all going to my head, or maybe it was the prosecco, but I suddenly had the urge to run away. I was in the mood to tease. Adam likes a challenge. He came racing out of the bathroom after me, naked, wet and not very aerodynamic. Shall we just say that, in the intervening years since the last time he chased me, he has filled out a little.

Anyway, there was only one direction to run and that was down the banister-less stone stairs. I got down the first flight well ahead, but Adam was catching up fast, so I zoomed down the next lot at breakneck speed, yelping playfully as I went. This was no way for middle-aged people to behave and, accordingly, just as I reached the bottom, I heard a horrid splat of flesh hitting stone. Adam had gone head over heels down the stairs. He was holding his wrist and wincing in agony.

I found some ice for his wrist but the pain was getting worse, so we headed off to the nearest hospital. It was a long drive down from the mountains and a long, hot wait in A&E.

The rest of our holiday was spent playing nurse and invalid. Adam had broken his right wrist, which meant I had to do everything for him. Our newlywed-style ardour had dissipated somewhat – I was parenting after all. When we got home to a shocked Jack, we explained that his dad had fallen down the stairs. Jack seemed to sense there was more to it than that. “It only happened because I wasn’t there to look after you,” he said. And in a way, he was right.’