Soon, these familiar daytime sounds will cease. This week, both my sons' gap years will come to an end and they will leave home for the first time, to begin their university courses. Not only will the house fall strangely silent; their departure will also mean an end to the ceaseless washing and folding of jeans, T-shirts and boxers; there will be no more shopping for multi-packs of mango juice; no more peering gingerly into their rooms and grumbling about the "floordrobe" situation.

As yellowing, tattered denim became chic, I felt like phoning every old girlfriend and female housemate who had ever complained about my dank piles of worn-out jeans (I call it my "floordrobe") to gloat that I was years ahead of my time, baby.

Children have the nasty habit of leaving their dirty clothes not in the hamper, not in the washer, not in the incinerator, but in a scraggly heap in the middle of the floor. This heap is called …

Floordrobe: Elizabeth Hogan, of Southeast Washington, and the team of Cathy and Dave Hostetler.