In the heart of central Amsterdam, in the heart of an old terrace, lies a dark, dark corridor; a mysterious tunnel of darkness. Very few people know what lies at the end of that passageway. It seems that not so long ago, quite recently in fact, some people were forced up the confines of the pitch black tunnel. They had no choice. But once they got in they had received a rather nasty surprise.

Forty miles away, in a well-sited parking bay, the sun rises on a paralysed car, waiting near the Dutch border, its cavernous boot is loaded with objects of much value. However, something is wrong with it. And that thing needs to be rectified before everything can go according to plan.

At the top of that gloomy hallway, there is a sound. It is a sound of creaking. It gets louder. Something is coming up the stairs. Finally, it reaches the very top. There is not just one. He draws the key out of his pocket and thrusts it in the door. The owner is back. The door squeaks open revealing the things that lurk inside.

Among some of the loot in the back of that car, were two MP3 players, some keys, and a family's personal belongings. However the plan is not going well. It seems that it will take a long time to get the car back on the road. The driver is plotting what would happen. She discusses whether to change tactics and try to get to England some other way. She does not look pleased.

In fact, what may seem like a cleverly plotted criminal scheme was actually two acts of foolishness from my family. At first we had arrived at an old Amsterdam apartment building, of which the top floor flat had been loaned to us by a friend for a few days stay, until he arrived back from his holiday. After fumbling around for the right key and carefully prising open the door, we saw a dark corridor ahead of us, leading to a dark stairwell.

"Aren't there any lights?" asked my mother.

"It doesn't look like it." replied my father. "Well it can't be that dark, can it?" he added.

With all four of us beginning to uneasily walk the hallway, not one of us noticed the light switch or even thought to search for it. Once we reached the stairwell, the only light was seeping in through a small window just above the door. In front of us, there stood a ridiculously steep staircase, the kind that they always seemed to have in Dutch buildings. We began to climb it one by one, my dad looking increasingly annoyed.

"How long is it to the top?" queried my ten year old brother who had a slight fear of darkness. However no one answered, because now there was nothing but a few cracks of light coming from under a few doors.

"Dad, why don't you get out that pocket torch that we got you for your birthday?" I suggested, wondering why no one else had thought of that. He rummaged around in his rucksack. Suddenly he swore.

"I left that ****ing torch in the car!" he bellowed. There was an awkward silence, as we all realised that we had to climb four steep staircases in the dark.

So we climbed steadily along, using only our hands to tell what was ahead of us. Then finally, something stood in my way.

"There's something in the way." I called down to my family.

"That would be the door." my dad informed me. There was a bit of uneasiness that followed as everyone else clambered onto the summit whilst trying not to fall on each other. Once we were all on the top landing and were certain that nobody would fall down the cliff-like stairs, we still had to open the door. My father did not look happy, but needless to say, no one could tell. At first my mum rummaged around in her bag to find a keying loaded with no more than seven keys. What followed was complete confusion. I heard sentences such as:

"Are you sure that's the key with two pointy bits?"

"That's the Chubb lock for crying out loud!"

"I think I just felt a spider."

At long last my dad picked up another key, thrust it angrily into the lock and twisted it, and for once it clicked. He shoved the heavy door out of the way, as bright light flooded the passageway, bursting through the dusty threshold. We came to our senses, but the apartment through the door now seemed brighter than the sun.

Thirty minutes later, we set off to have dinner at an Italian restaurant. It was either that or Dutch cuisine - chips and mayonnaise.

"I am not going along that corridor again!" exclaimed my mum.

"Well I don't think we have any other choice." Uttered my dad "Unless there a... Oh for goodness sake!!" He pushed his finger on a small switch, which flicked on and lit the entire dark passageway. There was a light switch all along.

As for the car, that happened while we were journeying back from our holiday in Holland. We were along a Dutch motorway at the steady pace of ninety five kilometres an hour, when my dad glanced at the dashboard. The small meter read that the car was low on fuel. Spotting a garage on the right, my dad hastily pulled in and lined up for the pumps. Looking confused by the foreign pump system, and unaided by the fact that he was colour-blind, my mum offered him help.

"I'm alright." he reassured her, and hesitantly and absentmindedly he began to fill up the diesel car with petrol. As he filled it up, he was blissfully unaware that he was doing more bad than good. After paying for the stuff that would wreck the engine he did the worst thing possible, without even knowing it. We pulled out, and set off once again.

It had been about ten minutes since that fatal 'pit stop'. Seemingly for no good reason the diesel car started to groan. We were powerless as slowly, the vehicle began to grind to a halt, just ten miles from the Dutch border.

"What's happened to the car?" asked my mum, a tone of panic now in her voice.

"Well I don't really know, but I think I could have put petrol in the car back at the garage."

Five seconds later, the awkward silence was pierced by:

"You did WHAT?!" And so it began. After a heated ten-minute long argument between my parents over carelessness, all I could do was sit wordless in the back seat. Finally the tow van came and took us to the nearest garage. They said it could take a while to fix. Meanwhile we stayed in a two-star hotel in the town. It was not really a bad stay. But more than two days of the local shops would definitely have got boring. However, as it turned out, it only took two days to buy the new part. My mum nearly fainted at the bill.

Of course we missed the channel shuttle and rebooking was never as easy as it should be. Nevertheless, we managed to achieve a quick remainder of the return journey, apart from the wrong turn that took us ten minutes off track. In the end, we arrived home safely to two weeks worth of milk bottles.