Our son is one of life's bathers. He disappears for a couple of hours, wallowing, hippo-like, up to his neck in a tanks-worth of hot water armed with Simpsons comics, can of Coke and stereo, building up a pea-souper of steam which effectively strips the paper off the walls. He emerges triumphant, prune-like and pink declaring "You can't beat a good bath". This usually triggers the debate of shower versus bath because he lives with a family of enthusiastic showerers.

We recently left him on the University steps, pot noodles in one hand and Claudia Schiffer poster in the other. We waved him a fond farewell and headed off to B&Q for brochures of power showers and dreams of shower rooms big enough to swing the cat in.

Monday morning, as I reach for the fast dial for the local plumber to remove the bath, son is ringing home. Yes, Freshers' Week is great and it is possible to live on the pot noodle diet and have change for the bus on a student loan but he does miss one thing. Was it the love of an adoring family or a mother's hug? Not a bit of it - his shared rooms only have showers and he is aready suffering withdrawal symptoms.

I sigh, cancel the plumber and put the dream brochures in the bin - the bath stays.