Cups and plates usually exiled for days (perhaps weeks) to their bedrooms now reside in the kitchen cupboards which are straining under the full complement of crockery.

Worktops usually used as dumping grounds for, well pretty much anything really, have been kept clear and wiped down. Stuff for recycling was in the recycling bins, shoes in the shoe box, coats hung up. It is all very civilised.

In fact the sense of order pervaded the whole house. Wash baskets were kept empty, washed clothes folded and ironed, towels neatly folded in the bathroom, keys kept in the drawer.

If you wanted to see what was on the telly (nothing usually), you simply looked in the Radio Times which was in its proper place. Uninvited guests no longer prompted a furious tidy up or red-faced excuses. The house really was in good order.

The hair brush was in the dressing table drawer. The shower was clean and ready to use. The bath mat clean and neatly folded The toothpaste was in the tube not stuck to the sides of the basin. Fresh clean towels were a joy and there was hot water... whenever you wanted it. We even gave the old rag rug in the kitchen a shampooing.

Even Rory the dog, recognising the new sense of order, for the first time in 12 years, stopped moulting.

Things were taking shape. Because the daily routines were carried out without any sense of crisis management or combating the indefatigable forces of clutter, chores took a fraction of the time. A quick flick of the duster and we seemed to be done. Ash pan emptied, the fire laid and ready for lighting.

Out in the allotment we started to harvest the first crops of the season.

The new potatoes are a delight, as good as any Jersey Royals. Broad beans, one of my least favourite vegetables, eaten raw as soon as picked are so sweet they bear no resemblance to the shop bought stuff.
Wet garlic, harvested now, is beautiful stuff. I chop up whole bulbs, chuck it on the griddle and eat it as a vegetable rather than an ingredient. The flavour is beautiful, and, best of all eating it "wet" does not mean the whole neighbourhood suffers. You remain (hard to believe in my case) kissable.

Where, through sheer lack of time (spent doing other things), the greenhouse was rather cluttered, order has been restored. Tomatoes are tied in to their supports with every side shoot pinched out. Yellow sticky traps keep white fly under complete control.

Trays of young vegetable plants are coming on nicely. We like to sow small batches of seeds in succession.

Outside, our peas are about 3ft. tall, and forming pods, a second batch is about 4in. high, and a third has just been sowed and is yet to appear.

It is a similar story with the beans, carrots, parsnips and raddish and lettuce: small batches sowed about 10 days apart, all ready to be cropped in succession. This is all very orderly and very civilised.

As the brambles and loganberries put on spurts of growth, I have managed to tie them in neatly to the horizontal straining wires and so the flowers and fruit are presented in a neat and tidy manner. No need to struggle through the tangle of living barbed wire to find the fruits this year. Order has been imposed and picking them should be a very civilised genteel affair.

This is all in sharp contrast to the life of my eldest daughter, who causing her father deep concern, is presently trekking through the swamps and jungles of Thailand.

We get the odd text message or email telling us not to worry and she is having a great time but frankly I haven't a clue where she is and I don't like it. I worry about her. It is, quite literally, a jungle out there. Why couldn't she have a week in Newquay?

Of course our own existance isn't as civilised as we might like to believe. A very good friend of our's recently lost all her chickens to the fox, or was it a mink? Picking up the dead bodies you realise it is the law of the jungle. When petrol supplies appear threatened, it is very much a case of dog-eat-dog as panic buying sets in as we rush to ensure our car is filled to the brim.

Seeing a pair of blackbirds unsuccessfuly fending off the attacks of three magpies raiding their nest, you realise it is a jungle out there. I net my strawberries against the attacks of those very same blackbirds.

In the garden pond, at feeding time a feeding frenzy takes place as the orfe attack their food with a vigor worthy of any great white sharks.
Law of the jungle here. First in, first served. To protect these unfeeling creatures from themselves becoming a meal, I net my pond against the predations of the heron. Cleverly he doesn't appear for weeks ... but as soon as I lower my guard ... he strikes!

Whether at the bird table, where the various species of birds compete with each other (and the squirrel) for their share of the take, or on the canalside where the ducks and geese jostle for position to get our offerings of bread it is a harsh reality that the rules of the jungle apply. Only when a dominant creature's appetite is satisfied will it allow its subordinates a share.

Thank goodness it isn't like that at home. Having said that my youngest returned from her holiday last Sunday.

The battle to keep the house tidy began afresh. Lights left on, suitcases and luggage littering the hall, fridge empty. Coming in from the allotment to take a shower, I found the bathroom cluttered with freshly discarded bottles of shampoos and lotions, towels left on the floor. That tank which the plumber assured us was the biggest on the market and would ensure hot water on tap at all times for even the most demanding families was drained. The early bird had got the worm. Welcome to the jungle.