I have a confession to make.

I'm spilling the beans the weekend before the first British teens depart on Israel Tour. This summer more than 1,200 teenagers will be taking part in a rite of passage almost as important as their bar or batmitzvah. They have the chance to tour Israel for one month with the youth movement of their choice, be it FZY, RSY-Netzer, Bnei Akiva or many others, organised by UJIA.

Read and learn, kids.

As a teenager, I was a tad cheeky. Not wicked, but certainly lacking fear of authority or the consequences of misbehaviour.

I was an FZY girl, and remember well the process of getting ready for Tour: the excitement and nerves that followed late-night calls with friends and running through Brent Cross with my mum the night before we left, to pick up a pair of awful, pink hiking boots. I remember wondering who I would meet and what we would eat.

The experience introduced me to people who, to this day, I call my best friends.

I imagined a lot of scenarios that would come to pass on the trip - but none ended with half of the tour (myself included) getting sent home 10 hours early because of one misdemeanour.

It was the 9th August 2005 - and I was celebrating my 16th birthday. Ever since I turned 10 (and realised I would never again be a single-digit) I have committed to doing something I've never done before on the day.

So when I was called to the top floor of the building we were staying in for a "surprise", I rushed upstairs. I found a group of people huddled together, one boy protectively cradling a bottle of vodka.

Why not have a celebratory sip?

We whipped out some plastic cups, splashed some of the cheap, clear liquid into them and toasted a L'Chaim. It was thrilling - and tasted absolutely rank.

Easily distracted, I pushed the cup aside after my one shot and made my way back to the bedroom to confess my sin to my friends. One laughed. Another admitted that she had done the same thing three days earlier. We moved on to talk about our last day on tour and put on our pyjamas.

Then, there was a knock on the door. Someone had told.

The madrichim (tour leaders) had a decision to make: ignore the news (one day before tour ended) or seek the culprits out. Quite fairly, they chose the latter.

Still in my pyjamas, I was called into the stairway. I was told that I had breached Israeli law and could only be protected if I told them what I had done. I blinked back tears and confessed.

The irony was, that afternoon an FZY representative had come to visit our tour and told us that we had been one of the "best behaved" groups of them all.

The next day, he came. Tall, slim and stern, with a pony-tail hanging down his back, this Israeli man had come to take us culprits back to FZY headquarters in Jerusalem, where our fate was to be decided. Not anticipating being sent home, I had mistakenly donned a pair of inappropriate denim short-shorts.

Later that afternoon, I found myself on a flight home, still wearing the shorts, and sitting in between two burly strictly Orthodox rabbis. It was extremely embarrassing.

On landing, we anticipated the worst. I was sure my father, born and bred in Baghdad, would disapprove the most. I sheepishly walked into the arrivals lounge, saw him amidst a long line of parents, and stopped. Then he, along with the other families (except two) burst out laughing at the sight of our terrified faces.

Since then, the story has been repeatedly told at family parties. Most importantly, to mark my not-so-sweet sixteenth, I had managed to do something I had never done before quite spectacularly.

Years later, working as a reporter at the JC, my mischevious days almost completely behind me, I was sent to cover a range of Israel tours, quizzing teenagers about their own experiences. Naturally I saw it as an opportunity to make up the one day I missed.

Again, I was taken to FZY headquarters - and to my utter dismay spotted the same ponytail from afar. Despite now being in my early twenties (an adult!), I did everything I could to hide, from cowering behind a tree to spending too long in the toilet. But he found me - and the interrogation began: "So you were on tour?" I answered honestly. "What year, who were your madrichim?" I fudged the details. "How old are you?" Busted. He remembered sending me home.

This week, I discussed the incident with my former British tour leader. He recalled: "I remember knocking on your door. You told me you had been drinking water, you were adamant. I was upset. Upset that you all had to be sent home and upset you had been so silly, but it was not really my decision. That was one for the big bosses."

So here it is: my confession. And the message to tour goers? Stay safe, have fun and be good. But if you're bad, don't get caught.