We were invited to my parents in law’s house for supper this evening. It marks the first of the bon voyages that we shall attend (endure) in the next ten days before the Boywonder goes off to take up his place at McGill University in Montreal, Canada.

So far we have talked about the practical details: fees; health insurance; bank accounts; courses; accommodation. It’s been quite impersonal. And yet now a bright yellow suitcase, bought long ago on a holiday in Tuscany, sits on his bedroom floor and I am wondering why he isn’t spending more time with his girlfriend before they part until Christmas.

We have started the discussion about what happens to the Boywonder’s bedroom now. (In the previous remodelling of our house, the stupid builders made a mistake and, instead of making the children’s rooms equal in size, they made one bedroom – his bedroom – much bigger.)

Apparently the rooms of his friends are all kept just so by their parents, shrines awaiting their return, but MsDD, who is about to start her GCSE year, probably needs more space. Still, it does seem like trampling on his (albeit entitled) feelings to move her in as soon as he departs. I do not want any arguments to sour the air before he goes away but I know he has been bruised by having to back down in the face of the logic. A room is not just a room, after all, it is a refuge.

Coincidentally, my friend @Casserly_Rock spotted this article all about this subject in the Huffington Post. It seems appropriate to link to it here.