The unthinkable has finally happened. He has left me. The child I thought would be with me forever, or at least as long as there was food in the fridge, has flown the coop - gone. After two years of commuting, my youngest child has moved out to share a flat.

How he is coping is a mystery. Since birth he has resisted all attempts to domesticate him. Somehow in spite of my best intentions and equality-driven agenda, he has managed to live for 19 years in a house where meals and clean clothes appeared in his life as if by magic. For 19 years his sole contribution to household hygiene has been the odd desultory foray with the hoover and, in a good week, putting his dirty football gear into the laundry basket instead of leaving it where every one else could trip over it.

The dog is devastated - he can't understand where his best friend has gone. For me, living alone after so long has been a voyage of discovery. I have discovered that neither the larder nor the fridge are self-emptying, bread can rest in the bread bin until it goes stale, the radio will tune to something other than pop and has a working volume control and the kids were right - the phone hardly ever rings for me.

The neighbours have rallied round with sympathy for my new isolated state. I don't know how to confess it: I like it. A sense of tranquillity enfolds me on Sunday evening when the student-laden bus pulls away. It's home to the fire, a glass of wine, Vivaldi on the CD and, should I so wish, control of the television remote control.

Of course, there is also the comforting thought that come Friday I will arrive home to find pop music blaring, the fridge emptying, dirty football kit in the hallway and an ecstatic dog who knows the world is now restored to order.