THE cuckoo is back in the nest. Two years after flapping her wings to head south, Daughter Number One has crash-landed back at Watson Towers. She's going to summer in Scotland – well summer, winter and spring, actually, but let's get through summer first. Or maybe just the first month.
She's here for a year's work placement at a city hotel, which meant either forking out to rent a flat or moving back in with mum, dad and Daughter Number Two. She keeps all her wages, and we pay for her to live. A pretty good deal.
The problem is
we've got used to not having her around. More space, less hassle, definitely tidier. It's like the new entry to the Big Brother House once the others have settled in. The question is now, who is going to crack first?
I suspect it could be Number Two. Now when she comes home, who does she find snuggled up in her bed, scoffing a bowl of cereal, watching the TV? You guessed it. It may well have originally been her elder sister's room but Number Two established squatters' rights some time ago.
To her great credit, Number Two has not exploded with violent teen rage – possibly not wanting to lose "borrow" privileges to elder sister's clothes and make-up – but I think it will eventually turn ugly.
Then again it could be her mother who loses the plot first. If she comes home once more after a long day at work to the words "I'm not doing it, I've been at work all day," then infanticide will be on the dinner menu.
Me. I've only asked her to pack her bags and leave twice so far. I can't remember what the arguments were about but they probably started with her shouting, "You can't speak to me like that any more."
But she has changed, for the time being, and – in exchange for money – has started cooking meals and even, occasionally, tidying up. She has started being pleasant when she sees you. Very worrying.
She has also learned some dark arts of survival. When emotions are running high and a confrontation is looming, she drops in how well she has done at work, how someone complimented her on her smile or how well she served them dinner. I can't help but feel a fierce paternal pride that dissipates any negative feelings. I couldn't have felt better if she'd won Wimbledon.
One day, she actually apologised for some unkind words which completely knocked me from a state of high dudgeon. I forgave her instantly. For now, there's an uneasy truce. How long it will last I don't know but that's the first week over. Only 51 to go.
Jeremy Watson is Senior Writer for Scotland on Sunday