My gardening attempts are too weedy

2:10pm Friday 4th July 2008

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WE MOVED house to get a garden. Paid a differential of about £99k for the privilege.

Then it dawned on me I don't garden. Can't do it. Don't have the time and don't know anything about plants.

I come out in a rash and start sneezing, and spend all my time fighting a losing battle against triffid-like weeds.

I've written about my gardening woe in this column before, but I insist on boring you again with it, because it's taken over all my spare time and dominates my guilty subconsciousness.

On Tuesday, I came home early from work and intended to write my column on my PC straight after dinner. I was going to pen another serious piece about health services in Bucks, but the page stayed blank on my screen as my mind flickered to the garden outside.

It was still light, so I just had to give up on my prose and rush into the 70-foot jungle that blights the back of my house.

About two years ago, we spent a load of time putting it more or less straight. I recall axing down a small tree to clear a sightline from my back window down to the dilapidated shed at the bottom of the three-tiered wasteland.

Then we ripped out millions of weeds, mowed the lawn, stuck up a cheap roll-out imitation fence, and Mrs Editor's Chair planted loads of nice flowers.

I shelled out for some expensive plant boxes, a few chairs and a table, and we even bought a large sand pit for our son.

We scattered several solar lights around, and finally we purchased a neat little fountain that also ran on solar energy.

For a few weeks, it looked nice. Children played idyllicly in our sand pit, adults sat happily on the garden furniture and a frog swam up and down each day in the stagnant water trough that had been dumped under some bushes.

Even the solar lights worked at night, and the cheap roll-out fence (sorry, don't know the lingo) stayed up straight against the chicken wire we'd tethered it to.

But then it all went Pete Tong.

We basically forgot about gardening for the next two years, and allowed the weeds to roar back.

The front garden, which I haven't yet mentioned, went completely berserk with massive bushes sprouting into the sky and blocking out our TV satellite signal. A friend who visited for the first time this weekend could not believe the size of the rainforest that borders our home.

At this point, you may well ask why I don't simply get a gardener. Well, firstly, I admit I'm a bit mean, but secondly, it's pretty difficult to find one who will take it on.

A couple of years ago, we rang round several numbers and eventually found someone who sounded experienced and eager. But when he turned up, he immediately shook his head and told us the huge rock garden at the front was too difficult to tackle.

Eventually, we did find a crew who helped us sort it at a price, but two years on we're back to square one.

I've tried gently chopping away at the huge bushes, but simply can't reach the top. So on Sunday, I had a rush of blood and began jumping up into the air, grabbing the foliage as I leapt.

My young son watched down below in bewilderment as I pulled down mighty branches. I'd given up on any finesse and began literally cracking the bushes in half with my bare hands instead of pruning them.

It actually worked, although there were several worrying bare patches of broken twigs left behind.

On Tuesday night, I tackled the back and did battle behind the shed with the suckers of a lilac tree.

Sickly slimy weeds tore into my skin and left me with red blotches but still I carried on cutting and snapping - filling up my Wycombe District Council green bin to the very brim.

Darkness descended, and I gave up knackered after barely making a dent.

I've now done loads of gardening, but never actually planted anything, and the whole effect is a sorry mess.

But I was pleased to see the frog was still swimming up and down in the dumped trough under the weeds.

I suppose you could call it a pastime. But, ironically, paying £99k for a garden means I can't ever find time to go to the nearby Rye any more at weekends - because I'm too busy trying and failing to make my own pale imitation of the park.