"TOILET paper is provided, unless we have to confiscate it, which sounds mean, I know. But when they start getting silly and use it to drape round trees or wrap people up in it, we do have to take it away.”

We were dropping our son William off, not at playgroup, but at university in Belfast. And this was the accommodation warden talking about some of the young men and women who may just come to help shape our future one day. Heaven help us.

We left William to his own devices at his new digs while we stayed at a hotel in the city centre for the weekend.

Within the space of 24 hours, we came to realise that the fact he might suddenly develop the urge to wrap trees up in toilet paper was the least of our worries.

He texted us on the first night to say he’d lost his room key: “It’s all right though, my mates came with me to the accommodation office and helped me sort it out.”

We were out having a meal at the time. I squeezed his dad’s arm. My eyes welled up and my voice was faltering: “He’s got mates,” I smiled.

Emotions tend to run high when your first-born flees the nest.

Next morning we said we’d call to see him and help him sort out his room. We met one of his fellow students in the corridor, blushing, in his pyjamas. “I just nipped out to use the loo and I can’t get back into my room,” he said.

We used our mobile phone to call for help. It turned out another of William’s friends had managed to lock himself inside the kitchen and couldn’t get out for an hour. That warden is going to have her work cut out.

William appeared at his door: “I lost my driving licence last night,” he said, scratching his head. “We all went out and I don’t know what happened to it.”

I was beginning to wonder if it was safe to let him out into the big, wide world on his own after all. But at least we were here to help him as he took his first, faltering steps.

I had to remind myself that, at his age, I travelled more than a thousand miles alone by ferry, bus and train, with just the one suitcase, to get to university. And when I arrived, I was shown to my room in an old, wartime airbase block with peeling paint and ancient plumbing.

How times have changed.

William’s accommodation block is comfortable and modern. There are plush, leather sofas in the living rooms. They even have a flat-screen TV in their kitchen.

Once we’d emptied the car of the huge number of boxes and bags full of his belongings, we had a trip to Ikea to buy a rug, a lamp, some cushions, bedding and other home comforts.

We went to the university, visited his faculty and had a tour round the amazing new £50m library. We also saw the new sports club, which has the sort of facilities an Olympic athlete would crave. William seemed excited by it all.

“You’re such a lucky boy,” I said.

The farewell, when it came, wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. How could I feel anything other than positive and happy for him?

His younger brother, Albert, who had come with us, found it much more difficult. He cried as we said goodbye and was still crying as we drove to the ferry. I reminded him we would see William next month when we go to Ireland for a family wedding: “And he’ll be home for Christmas.”

“I don’t want William to leave our family,” said Albert. I had a sudden flashback to when Albert was born.

William was 11 and absolutely doted on his new baby brother. I remember him carrying him, ever so proudly, when I took them all to the supermarket once. People commented on how lovely it was to see.

We arrived at the ferry terminal.

“Four people travelling today?” said the lady in the ticket office. “No, there’s just the three,” I said. “So who’s missing?” she asked. “I’ve got a student down here.”

And then it dawned on me. I’d automatically booked William onto our return ticket. I suppose I’d never had to book a one-way ticket for any of us before.

“Oh no, the student’s not here,” I told her. “We’ve left him behind...”