The other evening my husband and I went to bed early with our new books.

He was reading The Complete Idiot's Guide To Windows XP. I was flicking through the Royal Horticultural Society's Good Plant Guide.

"What's yours like?" I asked after a few minutes.

"Gripping," he replied. "How about yours?"

"A real page-turner," I said. "I've just found out that our Camellia japonica should be moved into the shade."

"Really?" he said, sounding shocked. "But it looks so splendid on the patio."

"Yes but it's getting the early morning sun and it says here that this could damage the blooms," I pointed out.

How suburban we have become.

After years of spending our reading moments immersed in novels and poetry and trying to improve our minds through the words of the great philosophers, we've gone all practical.

For the first time in my life, I can name at least five types of plant in our garden, while my husband knows the principles of navigating his way through a start menu.

These are hugely useful new skills for both of us. This means I won't look so helpless in garden centres and my husband might eventually be brave enough to switch on our new home computer.

But it is also sad that we no longer wander through life's landscapes in blissful ignorance. These days all we want are diagrams and flow charts.

Of course, our conversations have gradually changed over the years anyway, from late-night discussions about moral issues and the universe to brief exchanges about the domestic chores to be carried out that day.

This morning I reeled off a shopping list to my husband, with the additions of "goodbye" and "drive safely".

This evening, my husband rang from work to wish our daughter, Eve, goodnight and to let me know he had worked out how to put new lights in the bathroom ceiling.

On the plus side, this also means we don't argue over moral issues and the universe.

For instance, our recent midweek dispute was on whether or not Eve should be allowed to have cheese and carrot sandwiches for tea as well as for lunch, as she had requested.

I said "yes", he said "no".

Eve, realising her hunger was not about to be satisfied, then asked for chicken nuggets instead.

In fact, the only intellectually-challenging conversations to occur in our house these days are instigated by our inquisitive four-year-old.

The other day, after bedtime stories, she wanted to know why the wicked witch had put Rapunzel in a tower.

I could not give a satisfactory answer and had to agree with her that it was, indeed, an odd thing for the witch to do.

Eve then suggested that if Rapunzel had had any sense she would have found a way of cutting off her own hair, attaching it to the bars of her window, and climbing down it herself.

I tried to point out that improbable things happen in fairy tales - such as princes falling in love with comatose women or wanting to marry someone just because her foot happens to fit a glass slipper.

Eve furrowed her brow and threw another "why?" at me.

And I realised that either she hasn't yet reached the age of being able to suspend her disbelief or that she already has a thirst for more practical information.

"I tell you what," I said, reaching for my bedside book. "Let's look at a story about how to grow delphiniums."