Looking back, visiting always was fun. In fact, over the years my girlfriends more than once complained about the time I spent at my parents' house. I felt at home there just as much as I did in my own place and sometimes, when I was sharing accommodation, even more so.

I'd arrive and, on hearing my voice, Fluffy would come out from wherever she was sleeping to be picked up and have her chin scratched. Within minutes mum would be on the starting blocks, itching to get into the kitchen to fry egg and chips for me. This had become quite a tradition. It started many years ago when I used to hitch-hike between college in Liverpool and our house in Derby. On the Uttoxeter Road I used to pass a transport cafe called 'The Salt Box'. Somehow that name used to conjure up an image of salty egg and chips, an image I couldn't shake, so that by the time I got to our door it was all I could think of. So years later mum would set the oil heating on the stove while she chopped potatoes, I'd tell dad about my latest business trips, and he'd trump them with those of his own to the same countries. As far as he was concerned, the whole world was just a macrocosm of aviation and aero-engines. There wasn't anything under the sun that wasn't in some way related to fan-blades and service schedules.

But incrementally, things began to change. The TV became louder and louder. It was often at full volume, mum and dad shouting over it just to be heard. The heater would also be cranked up to the top level. It was like Hell. Food would be messed up, tea served with teabags still lurking in the dregs, my mail would be opened and scattered around, the computer rendered unusable (lost password), and the cats grew so fat they couldn't bend to lick themselves.

Somewhere amid this infernal picture, I got an attitude upgrade, and realised it was time to stop thinking of a visit to mum and dad's as a treat for me. Suddenly, visits began to seem more bearable. I could no longer blame mum and dad when things went wrong - my maxim that whoever is the most capable party bears the greatest responsibility meant that it was me who now had to keep things running smoothly. For a while it felt good to be of service, nice to be needed. As I said recently, there is a lot of satisfaction to be had in doing what must be done for others.

But, if I am honest, there has been yet another change recently. I seem to have reached the end of my patience with dad and his inability to deal agreeably with mum. I hate being drawn into their clashes by his ultimately pointless phone calls. I know I ought to be using the opportunity to console him, but when I do I feel fake. And when I am at the house I adopt a focused problem-fixing mode; I try to solve as many as I can in the shortest time, and get out quick. One of the problems I usually address is the inadequacy of mum and dad's diet, which means sitting down and eating with them, so I am perhaps not quite as ruthlessly efficient and impersonal as I sound. However, my mind is usually elsewhere, and I am always looking, vainly, for ways of escaping the predicament we've found ourselves in.

Right now, visiting is no fun. Given that things have changed before, I hope they change again soon.