My house has been a Mother-free zone for almost two weeks now and you can tell.

The ashtrays may be clean but the sink is full of dirty cups and plates, the plants need watering and the living room floor is covered with half-read newspapers and magazines.

Life is wonderful - but only for two more days.

Then, The Mother is due to return, which means I have just 48 hours to return everything to its normal pristine state.

"How long will you be gone? Will it be two weeks or three?" I asked hopefully when she announced plans to visit her clan.

"Just the one," she replied.

"Don't be silly," I said. "It's a long journey and there's absolutely no need to rush back. I shall be taking care of everything - the house won't burn down and I'm too old for all-night parties."

But The Mother was not for turning.

"I don't like living out of a suitcase, even for a week," she said. "Anyway I sleep best in my own bed."

"You could always take it with you," I muttered as she left the room, her decision final.

Then fate decided to intervene. At the end of The Mother's week-long visit, her sister was taken ill . . . well, not ill exactly.

A bunion became so sore and swollen that she couldn't wear her shoes.

"I'm afraid I'll have to stay for a few days longer, there's no one to do her shopping," The Mother explained on the phone.

"Take all the time you need," I said. "We're having such a lot of fun here."

"We?" said The Mother. "Who's we?"

"Oh, just a few friends who've dropped in for an orgy," I said. "Don't worry, I'll have everything cleared up before you return."

"You'd better," she said, not rising to the bait.

I called her at the weekend, ostensibly to check on my aunt's foot but actually to find out if my days of freedom were drawing to a close.

The news was not good for my aunt but excellent for me. Her foot was still swollen and she remained confined to her slippers.

"I probably won't be back for at least another couple of days," said The Mother.

"Oh dear," I said. "Well don't you fret about anything. They should have finished digging up the back garden by the time you get back."

"Who's digging up the back garden?" she asked, caught off guard this time.

"The police," I said. "Looking for all those bodies you buried, I expect."

Like Queen Victoria, The Mother was not amused.

"What are you really doing?" she asked.

"Actually I've started my novel," I replied. "But I think I've got writer's block, so tomorrow I may take the day off and stay in bed."

After she'd hung up I went into the kitchen. There wasn't a single clean plate or cup, one of the saucepans was burnt and another had something brown and congealed inside.

When did it happen? I thought. When did I revert to being a teenage slob?

Perhaps I'd never really grown out of it, perhaps I'd been given a maturity bypass.

An inner voice started to nag me. "Snap out of it, pull yourself together," it said. "Just get on those rubber gloves and start scrubbing. You'll feel much better when everything is clean and neat again."

There was something familiar about the voice. Could it be my Inner Child offering advice, I wondered?

No, I decided, that was no child . . . that, I knew for certain, was The Inner Mother.