Pink Elephant Car Park

Mr and Mrs Broadway had eight days in which to take a holiday. We sat at the kitchen table in Leicester and talked about where we'd like to go. Neither of us could look the dog in the face. He doesn't like us going away and punishes us each time we return by withholding his affection, Joan Crawford-like.

I remember that Mr Broadway once said, in the early days of our acquaintance, that he wanted to see Pompeii. Then I remember he has since sworn that he never wants to see an ancient monument or artefact for as long as he lives. He's not a Philistine. Have pity on the man: he was once exposed to about 2,000 icons in ten days – even the most zealous culture vultures on our Russian tour began to whimper with boredom as they were herded by a bossy guide towards yet another musty church full of priceless paintings. At one low point I thought Mr Broadway would commit slow suicide by taking off his hat, scarf, gloves and overcoat, and lying down in the 30° F-below-freezing snow.

So, I approach the subject of Pompeii stealthily, by filling his wine glass and mentioning that Italy would be warm at this time of year. He agrees. ‘Where in Italy?’ he asks. I lay a false trail. ‘Florence?’ I suggest. He says nothing, but I can tell what is going on inside his head, and it is this: he is tramping the hot-as-hell pavements of Florence with an inaccurate map, looking for a church, a gallery or a statue.

‘No, not a big city,’ he says.

‘The Amalfi coast is beautiful,’ I say.

‘Amalfi,’ he repeats. Again I see inside his head: he is imagining himself on a sun lounger, sipping Italian beer. He is surrounded by exotic-looking plants and Italian women. He is reading a blockbuster novel about the end of the world.

I refill his glass. ‘Yes, Amalfi,’ he says, dreamily.

Now is the moment. I strike. ‘And Pompeii is nearby.’

‘I've always wanted to see Pompeii,’ he says, obviously forgetting his horror of historical monuments.

‘We'll fly to Naples and stay in a hotel in Amalfi,’ I say, confidently. We avoid the dog's gaze and go to bed.

There are no flights to Naples and no hotel beds in Amalfi. Which is why we find ourselves at the Pink Elephant Car Park at Stansted airport driving around section G in the rain. We are doing this because a computer ordered us to. Section G is obviously full. We pass a queue of angry passengers. They are wet and so is their luggage. They are waiting for a shuttle bus to take them to the airport, which is miles away. We disobey the computer and park in section H. Miraculously, an empty shuttle bus stops and picks us up. I cannot look as it drives past the angry queue in section G. But I imagine their howls of outrage. The Pink Elephant sign appears to mock us as we leave the car park. The creature is dancing on its hind legs, grinning and waving its trunk in the air. If I had been in the G-section queue I would have wanted to do serious damage to that Pink Elephant's happy face.

We flew into Rome, then hired a nippy car (an Opal) and drove along the perilous coast road to Ravello, where we stayed in a twelfth-century castle. On our first night, the townspeople greeted us with a spectacular firework display (that's my interpretation, my husband thinks our arrival coincided with the end of a religious festival).

After six days of heaven we drove back to Rome, calling in at Pompeii on the way. I couldn't help thinking, as I walked around the magnificent site, with its beautiful villas, grand amphitheatres, fountains and public swimming pools, that we have learnt almost nothing since about town planning. They had one-way cart roads, fast-food outlets and pubs that opened on to the street. And – who knows? – if Vesuvius hadn't covered the town in lava and ash, they may have invented the cappuccino. Mr Broadway was enchanted and we plan to go again.

We got off the plane to find that Stansted appeared to be in disarray. It seemed that hardly anything worked. Even the roller towels in the ladies' loo were on the floor. Pink Elephant Car Parks were in chaos again, due to the breakdown of their computerized credit-card payment system. To make things worse, I couldn't find an automated cash machine with any money in it.

When we eventually left the environs of the airport, I looked at the flat Essex landscape and thought that what was needed was a large volcano – an active one, with enough lava and ash to cover the smile on the face of that prancing pink elephant.