Senior Son's been home for the week. Well, I think he's been home.....

Certainly I picked him up last Thursday. It took me an hour and a half to do the 20 minute journey to Northallerton, which is where - six hours after leaving Manchester - he'd managed to get to by train and bus and a very roundabout route. The rain poured, the winds howled, the floods rose and as I inched the car through a couple of feet of water under Northallerton's dripping railway bridge, a six foot five inch monster with shaven head loomed up out of the dark and grabbed the door handle.

"My baby!"

"Mummy!"

It took us even longer to get home and then after a substantial supper ("anything as long as it's homemade please") we were all on flood alert, so though he looked longingly at the car, he wasn't going anywhere.

This - would you believe - is officially a Reading Week. Reading Week? How long does it take to read the sports pages and The Beano? In my day, I had the entire works of English Literature to read in three years, but no one gave us a reading week.

Anyway, the next morning, the waters had receded, the sky was blue and he was out at the crack of noon. A quick pit stop for food and he was off out again till dawn. As soon as he was up on Saturday, he was off to Hull for the football match. He went straight back to Richmond, stayed at a friend's and because I was out on Sunday, we didn't meet up until Coronation Street (and chicken casserole). Monday he stayed at a friend's in Richmond, Wednesday he went to Newcastle, was due back yesterday when he was then going to Leeds.

I know he's here, because there's an enormous bag of dirty clothes by the washing machine. There are heaps of dirty trainers in the hall. All the sofa cushions - which have stayed perfectly in place for the last two months - are strewn all over the sitting room floor, along with all the sports pages. And there's a trail of soggy towels between the bathroom and his bedroom.

And in the few rare moments when they are both home together, the air is full of my little boys arguing over:

l The remote control

l The computer

l The last chocolate biscuit

l Just who's turn it is to do the washing up or wear the pale blue YSL shirt.

Senior Son says he's done some work. (When? How much study time can you squeeze in between Byker Grove and Neighbours?) Well, he's put a bag of books on the dining room table and put some very impressive looking folders and a pen there. Has he opened them? Written a word? Well, what do you think?

He will put in an appearance for Granny's birthday tomorrow, collect his washing, scrounge a food parcel and be off again till Christmas.

And all I will have to show for his presence is a depleted store cupboard, the lingering smell of trainers and a few stray socks down the side of the sofa.

That was my boy, that was. I think