IN A Woman of No Importance, Oscar Wilde wrote: "All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy."

Once I scoffed at the idea that I would turn into my mum. But, genetics can't be denied. And I think I can gradually feel them rising to the surface, like the Loch Ness Monster (or do I mean Alien?)

Here's the evidence. Make up your own mind.

Exhibit A: I used to be untidy. I'd wash up when I ran out of plates and had to be nagged to wipe up my crumbs, tidy up my papers and take my plate out after I'd used it. It's fair to say that being surrounded by stuff didn't bother me. But now I seem to have developed an obsession with random cups and small piles of loose change which (given that men won't carry purses) crop up with alarming frequency all over the house.

I just can't relax. Plus, if I see an empty glass, I wonder why it's there. I've taken to tidying things away only to get embroiled in that age old gender pantomime of "hey, have you seen my xxxx?" as my Mum and Dad once did. Of course I've seen it. It's in the bin.

Exhibit B: Before an occasion of any importance my mum will be ready about four hours earlier than necessary, having woken at 6am, and, whilst everyone placidly gets dressed she'll be tensed by the door, incredulous that someone is still in the shower. These days, if there is an occasion of even middling importance, I frequently find myself sitting on the sofa, coat on, bag and keys in hand, poised, ready for my other half who, invariably, is still in the shower.

Exhibit C: My mum used to say "I hope you and your friends don't behave rowdily on buses" Of course we did, secretly believing that our rapid fire, screaming conversations were a gift to our fellow passengers. Up until a few years ago, I still didn't understand the virtue of discretion. Now, suddenly, I am incensed by people who have loud, bawdy conversations across the room in public. How arrogant to assume we want to hear them! (I have to say my mum was barking up the wrong tree, as the culprits are frequently over 50 and on holiday).

Exhibit D: My mum has a habit of moving the furniture round about three times a month. You still never know quite where the TV will be. Me, I've always hated routine, and now I realise that my mum does too. I haven't started on the furniture yet, but it can only be a matter of time before the other half comes home to find a cheeky side table where his hi-fi once sat.

In my defence I have to add that Wilde followed the line "all women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy" with the words: "No man does. That is his." I couldn't agree more. I've evolved. Now if only men could inherit their mum's habits of hoovering the house top to bottom, dusting and then cooking a lovely tea, well, that would be progress indeed.