This story follows "Not July 10!", and is the second in a series about my experiences as a teacher, on a school excursion from Australia to France with seven teenagers.

Taking seven teenagers to the other side of the world? For three weeks? Was I crazy?

Blake was the youngest, but was more responsible than his scatter-brained friend Ben, whom I felt would need watching. They were both nearly fifteen.

Cherie, at nearly seventeen, was the oldest. She was very pale in complexion and had stunning black hair almost to her waist. Head-turning. Unfortunately she'd had a severe illness, and was still recovering from the resultant crippling fatigue. Her parents felt that the excitement of this trip would help get her back into normal life. I prayed she would manage! I couldn't very well leave her by herself anywhere to rest!

In fact I prayed that I would manage! There would be no possibility of any down-time for me either, morning, afternoon, or evening! Twenty-three days! What was I thinking!

Sophie was very studious, a serious shy girl with flaming red hair. Mandy had a vivacious bubbly personality. Evie and Jemma were best friends, both very attractive, and well aware of it.

Seven was an awkward number. Somebody might feel left out. And who would want to sit with the teacher? I'd need to rotate the friendship groups.

Evie and Jemma brought large suitcases, replete with hairdryers, curling wands and enormous make-up bags. Ben arrived at the airport with a massive suitcase, even bigger than those of the girls. It was stuffed full of … well, whatever teenage boys think they MIGHT need on their first trip away from home.

"Ben, we're away for only three weeks!" I exclaimed. I learned later that his needs included a music system with speakers!

I reminded them of our Information Night, when I had stipulated that each would be responsible for their own luggage, and smaller was better as we would frequently be using public transport. I foresaw problems, and anticipated being asked to help. Sorry, no deal.

After a flight of more than twenty-four hours, we were glad to disembark at Charles de Gaulle Airport, near Paris. A mini-van was to take us to our hotel. The driver exclaimed in horror at the size of the suitcases. Ben's case evoked much tut-tutting and waving of hands. And swearing – new vocabulary for the students.

They were exhausted, and the girls became quite frightened at the early morning traffic, going so fast and apparently erratically – and of course we were on the "wrong" side of the road, weaving in and out of heavy morning traffic. It did not help that our driver was also driving extremely fast, talking on his mobile phone, and at times gesticulating wildly without either hand on the wheel!

Not far from the hotel, he took a few wrong turns. More swearing. Unforeseen road works also necessitated further detours. We then turned the wrong way up a very narrow one-way cobbled street. We held our breath. Parked cars lined each side with barely enough room for one vehicle between them. Definitely not two. The driver folded the side mirrors in.

However, cars were approaching – yes, at speed, despite the narrow space.

Evie screamed. The driver was muttering. We hastily reversed. The trip was taking longer and longer as the driver sought an alternative route. Around and around we went.

"Mrs G! I'm going to be sick!" cried Evie.

"Non! Non!" replied the frustrated driver in response to my request to stop.

"Hold on! We are nearly there! Five minutes!" I promised hopefully, hastily scrambling for a plastic bag.

We didn't quite make it.

A few hundred metres from the hotel, Evie was violently ill. Fortunately, I caught most of the vomit in the bag. As we drew up, I was trying to hold the bag, and scrub the car's upholstery with wipes … not quite successfully. The driver was not happy.

We staggered out, and, for the first of hundreds of times, I counted to seven. Everybody was present. Everybody checked their belongings. We had not yet lost anybody or anything.

It is very difficult to look dignified or elegant, or even "normal", when supporting a crying teenage girl on one side, managing her suitcase as well as my own, and trying not to drop a bag of vomit!

Nevertheless we all lurched into the foyer. I hoped the smell was not too dreadful. Mustering as much cheerfulness as I could, I approached the desk. "We are the school group from Australia," I told the receptionist – probably rather unnecessarily.

The dear lady tried to not show her shock at our weary appearance ... or perhaps our odour. But our rooms would not be ready till the afternoon, although of course we could leave our luggage – while we explored Paris for the next several hours!

"Is there anywhere I could dispose of a bag of vomit?" I asked hopefully, holding up the offending bag, "And somewhere to help Evie and myself to clean up a little?" She showed us to a bathroom in the foyer.

This difficult and embarrassing beginning was the result of a combination of a lengthy and exhausting trip, motion sickness and fear.

Full of sympathy for the poor Australian students and their teacher, she offered a spare room for Evie to rest until ours were ready. A lightning decision. Yes, Evie and Jemma could stay behind and rest. They must stay in the room, and not allow any one in – under any circumstances.

Surely that was clearly spelled out? Easy to understand? Easy to follow? Surely ….

It was not the beginning I'd envisaged!