“He says he’s got lots of washing,’’ Secondborn announced the other day, after pecking away at the keyboard, “and he wants picking up because he’s got too much to carry.’’

The ‘too-much-to-carry’ did not include a birthday present for his sister, but that did not diminish the pleasure of having her sibling home to divert unwanted parental attention away from herself.

She’s gone, in the space of a year, from being someone who extolled the virtues of being an only child to discovering that the price of being a singleton is that it’s difficult to get away with anything. There’s no-one else to blame for the damp towels on the bathroom floor, empty crisp packets and chores left undone.

When they were both at home during the summer I used to leave little notes - one each - listing household jobs and tasks that I deemed important. My protestant work ethic means I can’t abide what I perceive as a wasted day.

I was frequently disappointed.

“And so,’’ I would say when I returned from work to discover that nothing had been done and the washing up in the sink had grown into a teetering mass, “exactly what have you both been doing all day?’’

For the last couple of weeks I have been leaving a solitary note. ‘Put the rabbit out. Wash up. Make your bed. Sort your bedroom out. Go on cross trainer.’

This note is often to be found exactly where I left it, none of the jobs crossed off.

“I didn’t have time for all that,’’ The Girl will say, irritably, which causes me to explode: “I could have done that lot in an hour.’’

It’s obvious that my definition of a wasted day is quite different from hers.

I suspect she’s counting the days until July 6 when Big Brother returns to the house, even if it does mean that we’ll have to move our gym somewhere else. Then she’ll have an ally against their common enemy - the parental control freak.