Daughter must finally be growing up, I realised this week, after she impressed me by voluntarily tidying her bedroom.

This did not involve tidying in the usual sense of the word, as clearing a toxic area with a bulldozer would be a more accurate description of the activity required.

It is my usual practice to venture up there about once a month and pick my way through the piles of clothes, CDs and other junk on the floor in a search of any mould-encrusted crockery or left-over pizza.

I do this while shuddering with terror at the state of the place and wondering fearfully what I will find.

All the books say teenagers need their own space and because of the usual state of her room I have been happy to follow this advice and keep well away.

I do her washing if it's brought downstairs and insist on a weekly delivery of used bed linen, which I replace with clean stuff.

I leave this with any other ironing on the bottom of the staircase leading to her room and do not otherwise presume to interfere.

I don't know what started her tidying up, perhaps she just got fed up of never being able to find anything when she wanted it.

Whatever the reason was, she appeared one day this week requesting cleaning materials and bin bags.

I bit my tongue in order to prevent myself saying anything sarcastic like 'do you know what a bin bag is darling?' or 'shall I explain how the furniture polish works?' and handed it all over without a word.

It took her two days and at the end there were ten big bags full of unwanted possessions in the spare room. Her bed has been pushed against a wall, leaving an expanse of blue which I realised after some confusion was the floor.

Her clothes are hanging up in the wardrobe and folded in drawers. Her CDs are in the CD rack, her books are on the bookshelf.

Even more strangely, the previous no man's land underneath her bed, which used to be filled with boxes and bags of stuff, is now completely clear.

Her tastes have veered towards the minimalist approach as she's got older, in contrast with her previous habit of hoarding everything she has ever owned like a magpie.

She has arranged everything so she can lie in bed, answer the phone, listen to music, turn lights on and off, and watch Big Brother on her TV all at the same time and without getting out of bed at all.

She is obviously planning to camp there over the holidays but at least her campsite is a clean and tidy one now.

Bob the blackbird recovered, by the way, and was let free to join his hardworking mum in the tree behind the shed.

As the cat has so far failed to appear with a Cheshire cat grin on her face and feathers sticking out of her mouth we think we can safely say he has survived his ordeal.