The most awful thing about an empty nest is this: there are no half-measures. A fortnight ago, my 19-year-old was inviting 10 friends over for post-club drinks at 4 a.m., eating every blueberry and strawberry I bought within 10 minutes of me arriving home from the supermarket, and urgently needing the car to get to the eyebrow-plucker at the precise second I wanted to use it to get to a long-scheduled interview.

Today, she is gone – 400 miles away in Edinburgh, beginning her new life as an undergraduate.