When in Rome...

Easter Day 1996. I was 16 years old and on holiday with my parents in Italy. Mrs Nunn didn't like flying, so we'd taken a 30-hour coach ride. Picture a geriatrics ward at your local hospital. Add to that a few hacking coughs, wall-to-wall Richard Clayderman and Stan Getz over the PA system, and a brash fat blonde guide, waddling up and down the aisle, shouting, "Brandy Bombers? Anyone want a Brandy Bomber?" The journey there was a special type of hell.

We had been to Florence, where I had sulked around the Uffizi. (How many paintings of Jesus does one building need?) We had visited some old town that involved walking up lots of hills. Finally, it was time for the day-trip to Rome.

The weather was beautiful. Rome was a delight. We saw the Pope, who was so far away, he looked like a little milk bottle on his balcony. We wandered through the streets... and came across a portrait artist. I had always wanted my portrait sketched, and my parents haggled with the artist and agreed a price. He said something about money - perhaps that he didn't want paying until the end. Dad gave the money to me to give to the artist. I sat down and he started to sketch me.

A crowd gathered, watching him draw. He looked up at me, looked at his paper, sketched, looked up again. Behind me, the sun shone down onto the Colosseum. He sketched some more. More people gathered. Mum said, "It looks really good." Finally he finished. He held out the portrait to me. I took it.

"Thank you," I said. "That's great."

I handed over the money to him.

"NO!" shouted the artist. "NO! You must not let me see the money! No!"

He snatched my portrait back and ripped it into tiny pieces. "Go away!" he shouted at me. "Go away!"

Mad. As. A. Tree.