CHAOS reigns, tempers are fraught, piles of clothing hide the bedroom carpet. That can mean two things. It's time for a clear-out or we're going on holiday.

This week, piles of paper rivalled the piles of clothing. Just as a formality, I decided to check on our passports to see if they were both in date and in the passport holder. John's was. Mine wasn't. Panic. Had I been away without him? No. So where was it? As we are off to Ireland, I was not even sure whether we required a passport, but apparently we do and, in any case, a passport is not the sort of document you should misplace.

With every drawer in the house emptied out, John suddenly remembered that I had had to take my passport to our solicitors' office to prove who I was for a formal identification. John Ellis, our solicitor, knows exactly who I am, but for the terms of the transaction I was completing, he needed to know officially. I caught him on the telephone just as he was disappearing out of the door, worn out after a hard day's slog dealing with the likes of me. No he didn't have it, yes he would look for it - but tomorrow - and he also wanted to try to get to a cricket match.

At that precise moment, John found the errant passport tucked away in an envelope of assorted identification. Me am definitely I. Poor John Ellis, his ear must still be ringing from the squeals of glee, but he could enjoy his match in peace without the spectre of me asking him to riffle through deeds and covenants, etc, etc.

My daughter Bryony's in-laws are coming to house/farm-sit. Lots of instructions about walking dogs, bringing Rupert the horse in, shutting the gates at night in case the bulls get out. Brother-in-law Geoff will be in on a daily basis to see to everything else.

The only real worry we have is Holly, the egg thief. It is a small miracle that anything has hatched out of any of our nests as Holly, a spaniel, has a true talent for seeking out duck and hen eggs and feasting on their contents. She also brings back ducklings and chicks. Last year they never survived the experience, but this year they can usually be returned, wet and warm, to their furious mothers.

Two of the ducks have chosen Holly-proof nests, but both sites are causing problems. One nest is high in a haystack, and now rests precariously on an outcrop of hay as all the bales have been removed for feeding the calves. The other duck has squeezed under an iron cage protecting three camellias growing in a stone trough. The camellias need a lot of water but I can no longer turn the hosepipe onto them, as to do so would drown the duck and wreck the nest. Holly knows the nest is there but hasn't worked out a way to get at the eggs. It's an impasse.

Our house-sitters have also to remember to guard the cat fiercely whilst she is eating her food to stop the dogs eating the cat meat. They must also never forget that she is the sneakiest pussycat in the world and will, undoubtedly, as soon as their backs are turned, find her way into the house and under a bed, sofa, chair or table, or climb up into the tumble drier, washing machine, airing cupboard or attic.

Perhaps if we could train Holly to be as keen on retrieving the cat as she is on finding where eggs are, the problem would be solved.

Updated: 14:51 Wednesday, June 04, 2003