I’m just getting used to wearing clothes, having recently returned from my family honeymoon in Mallorca.

Yes I did say family honeymoon; that’s a teenager, a baby, a new husband and myself sweltering in 36-degree heat to the south-east of the Balearic island that made mufti-wearing an impossibility.

First came the wedding, a perfect country affair at St Nicholas Church in Baulking witnessed by our nearest and dearest.

Surprisingly, no hitches, although the bridal entrance music did start before my arrival.

This, I should add, was prompted by my delightfully eccentric mother’s late entrance into the church, jogging down the aisle and exclaiming she wasn’t the bride to sniggers from both sides of the pews and total relief from my waiting husband-to-be.

The only other mishap prior to leaving for the church was from a 15-denier pair of tights that my mother had trouble pulling up past her knees. They were eventually hoisted to an acceptable height… but “oh” the trauma!

A foreign holiday with a baby is no mean feat, the piles upon piles of things and “equipment” needed whilst away from home is endless – ready- made pureed food, cartons of baby milk, steriliser, baby juice, clothes, and the great big cumbersome pram...

We flew from Birmingham airport, full of expectation for our holiday and, like everyone else passing through airport security, our hand luggage was placed in square plastic crates to be scanned.

I pushed the baby pram through, relieved that no alarm was set ringing, but suddenly found myself beckoned by security staff who wanted to “frisk” the pram.

As a security man unzipped a zip I didn’t even know existed on the shopping carrier beneath the pram seat, I was faced with the question: “Is this yours?”

Feeling slightly nauseous at the discovery of a long black truncheon I wanted to say no but in fact said “yes”.

Of course it was mine, and while I feared being handcuffed and taken to a secure room for questioning, I studied the “weapon” and to my delight realised it was the pram wheel pump.

My, how the security man and I laughed. My laughter was of extraordinary relief (I wasn’t going to do time in a Brummy jail). His laughter, on the other hand, was prompted by how stupid could a mother be to not know a pram comes fitted with a pump.

But that wasn’t all.

Then came the continued humiliation of having our hand luggage scrutinised and let me tell you: carrying bottled baby fluids comes at a price.

You actually have to taste it, witnessed by airport staff, but I passed on it for good reason. Instead my new husband, in the middle of a busy airport and surrounded by glaring globetrotters, found himself sucking on a bottle of breast milk.

What a wonderful and unforgettable start to married life...