One day I will live in a house where the chocolate spread goes back in the cupboard. Right now it doesn’t matter how many times I separate the jar from the toaster, the minute my back is turned, they’re snuggling up together again on the counter. The dishwasher will be either empty, or filling. It won’t be half full of clean dishes waiting to be put away, garnished with a sprinkling of used pots and pans. I’ll be able to set the table for dinner without having to remove packaging from the latest parcel delivery, abandoned in the excitement of examining its contents. The sofa will have cushions that look pretty for more than a day. Mine go mountaineering, clambering up the sofa sides to support teenage heads, and waiting there patiently for their return. I might no longer find half drunk glasses of squash in the bathroom, or heaps of bowls on bedroom floors, contents congealed and incubating mould. Heavens, I might even be able to tell what colour the carpet is in there again. Friends whose children have grown up and gone tell me this dream will come true. That they can leave their house in the morning and come back later to find, miracle of miracles, everything is just as they left it. Not even a sticky spoon to welcome them. How will I feel when it’s my turn? Will it be a dream come true, or a living nightmare? I may follow a trail of destruction around my home, but as least it’s a sign of life. If I miss them too much when they’re gone, I can always pull the chocolate spread back out of the cupboard.