Now that the vivid yellow of oil seed rape has disappeared from the horizon, and the lingering smell of damp bandages has fled along with it, there is a lovely sheen of blue beginning to appear in the fields.
The crop is linseed and it is beautiful. I don't see it in The Enchanted Village, the sight greets me now on my way into work, along with cut hay fields and dusty roads. At home the elderflower is in full cry, the campions are going ragged around the edges and the long, long grasses sway in the breeze while the rigid, rusty docks compete with the nettles for air.
In the Grigg household, there is a sheen of dust as the builders up their act. Two velux windows have been installed in our dining room, drowning it in light. Dog and cat hair compete for full coverage of the old carpet. The stain where the youngest spaniel failed miserably in his toilet training suddenly becomes visible, as if it were previously written in invisible ink.
A huge spider's web the size of Botswana can now been seen in the corner of the kitchen, while the hovel's only lavatory is completely devoid of light. You sort of have to feel your way, after tripping over the cardboard covering the floor.
My upstairs office in the spare bedroom is a tip, I can't find anything and the mirror has a huge heart on it, drawn in the dust.
And if anyone else says to me: 'Ah, but it'll be worth it in the end', I think I just might have to punch them in the throat.