My son is far from home – and all he misses is the plants | Emma Beddington

Our elder boy is finally having some fun after a year of lockdown. But he can't forget the seedlings he left behind

I am taking pictures of ailing house plants. There are a few casualties: a furry reddish thing is droopy, a stripy green and white chap has yellowing leaves and something spiky has a withered arm (branch, whatever). Excellent, excellent," I mutter to myself, holding them up to the light to get a better shot.

The plants belong to my elder son, who is away. His Covid testing job became so boring when infection rates plummeted that relations between the cleaning and security teams deteriorated into a Sharks v Jets-style beef, while others spent their 12-hour shifts doing crosswords. Instead, he found a conservation volunteering gig far from home, finally escaping the suffocating family cocoon of the past year: no more sitcom repeats and Wednesday night takeaway rota. I'm delighted. I hope all his cohort of newly minted adults get the chance of a few months of carefree fun before another year of student debt and awful job prospects hits.