There’s nothing like mowing the lawn after a long day at work. While all of England watches the match this evening, I will do a spot of gardening. Perhaps I will make headway in the jungle at the bottom and bring some order.

Who knew we had our very own boutique café? Taking bookings for tea on the terrace right now.

See, all those hours spent watching some random bloke cleaning people’s patios were not wasted after all. Inspired me to weed mine, eventually. Could still do with a clean, though. But that’s a job for another day. I’m pooped.

Nuts must be in short supply, for the local neighbourhood squirrel has taken to pilfering all the garden fruits. Looks like this one has a taste for Turkish lokum too, since it keeps plucking the succulent buds of the roses whenever they reappear.

The notion of virgin forest, untouched by man, is a myth. This the conclusion I draw, inspecting my gone-wild back garden. After just a few weeks’ neglect, vines, brambles and self-seeded sycamores are on the ascendancy. Left three years and we’d have a jungle on our hands. Remove the population of our town for twenty …

Our charity to the bees who, we’re told, haven’t had enough to pollinate this spring. The least we can do, given that we steal their honey. Enjoy the weeds and shaggy grass, dear friends. Bzzz alaikum.

Oh well, that ‘repair’ lasted twenty-four hours. Who knew a storm was due after such  fantastic weekend weather? I give up.

I’m not even trying at this point. A temporary fix until a professional replaces the lot.

Successful gardening leave, in my humble opinion. The best form of therapy.

I said to my wife when she commended my efforts, “I’m not a pro, but I’m cheaper than the other guy.” I booked the other guy months ago, but he was another no-show. As usual, we learn that the best approach is to do it ourselves. I may still need the other guy for his …