Leaving home at last: how I got my fledgling daughter to leave the nest It's no secret why it is happening, of course. Whereas a university degree was once a powerful springboard, providing lift-off up the career ladder, nowadays it can, in so many cases, be the point at which you take the plunge into the ever-deepening unemployment pool. The first inklings my wife and I had that we might have a "failed fledgling"" on our hands was towards the start of our daughter's final year at university, when we found her poring over the world atlas. Our fears were not diminished by finding handwritten notes, bearing phrases such as "Bolivian Salt Flats" and "Hostels - Buenos Aires." Sure enough, those scraps of paper became converted into plane and train tickets, and before we knew it, she was filling her post-college gap year not with job application forms, but with adventures that ranged from three-day bus journeys to a spell in a Colombian salmonella clinic. Followed, inevitably, after three or four months of high-adrenaline excitement, by a return to the boring, old suburban family home, where the noise that stops you sleeping is not rhythmic samba drumming, but the next-door neighbours mowing their lawn a tad early on a Sunday morning. Of course, from her point of view, the big advantage of living with us again after graduating was that it was not costing her anything. This, however, was balanced by the twin disadvantages of living once more under the parental eye, if not yoke, and not being anywhere near as exciting as rampaging round South America with her friends. Then, of course, there were the household chores. Light duties, mind you - vacuuming the stairs, cleaning the bath, filling and emptying the dishwasher. Not too much to ask, and we insisted upon them. If they weren't done, we followed up with insistent nagging. Never fails. There were other issues, too. Was she going to be in for dinner, or not? After a few last-minute, I've-got-a-better-offer cancellations, we introduced a 5pm cut-off time. Then there was the question of not just when but if she would be back that night. If not, we needed to know so we could lock and bolt up. Again, we imposed another arbitrary cut-off point - just let us know by midnight. There are plenty of parents who do not quite have the backbone for the fight - those who feel that their little darlings have been returned to them and should be re-accorded full infant privileges. All they are required to do in return is to sit with beaks open, and wait for food and funds to be dropped in. To those mothers and fathers, I say, prepare for your offspring to opt not for a short-term stay in the parental car park, but for a long-term berth. It's not just the laundered shirts and clean sheets that will wrap your young up and prevent them leaving, either. It's the money they'll have spare for evenings out. Whereas young people in the 1970s went round to each other's flats and made a can of Party Seven or a bottle of Woodpecker last a whole evening, today that's just a warm-up, a bit of pre-loading in preparation for the small-hours clubbing action and a taxi home. It makes no difference, either, to stand there and tell your daughter that, when you were her age, you not only lived in a squalid, shared flat, but spent at least half your wages on rent. What does make a difference, though, is when you start asking her for rent. Yes, rent. At first hearing, it doesn't sound good. Nor at second hearing, either. You don't get mother and father blackbirds insisting that their chicks start bringing home worms or else start looking for a new nest. None the less, the request for £200 a month not only set in train a job search, it oiled the wheels to such an extent that she moved out. She now shares a house with three of her best friends, and although her bedroom is the size of a cubicle, it is, at least her own cubicle. After almost a year - sometimes it felt much longer - our failed fledgling waved us goodbye. But not before we offered her lifts to the station so she would be in with a chance of making it to her flat viewings on time. Now there are no more dusty exchanges here at parental HQ, over unmade beds, unswept floors and un-pre-soaked dishes. And when she does comes to stay the night, as she does occasionally, when babysitting locally, her presence in the house is a source of delight rather than a bone of contention. It is, of course, a strange trade-off. She has less space and less money than when she was living with us. And because we've got one less person in the house, we have more space and more money. Somehow, though, it feels like progress. It is, after all, the natural order of things.