It is fair to say that I am no Alan Titchmarsh. I don’t like gardening. I don’t own any gardening equipment. I don’t own a lawnmower, a spade or even a bucket. I do, however, live in a house where there is a garden with grass and an ivy hedge.

I have been living in this house for 8 months now, so needless to say things have become a little overgrown. In fact the lawn outside the front of the house is starting to resemble the African outback. I think I saw a lion hiding within prairie on my walk to work this morning.

I could easily ignore this situation. I could let the ivy hedge grow to an extent it takes over the wall, then the road, before engulfing the city of Bath, and eventually immersing the entire world in greenery. If I left the lawn, no doubt, it too would get out of control, growing all the way to the moon. Would I care? No. Sadly, my neighbours would. I live in an area where people cut their lawn to resemble a carpet. They twitch from behind curtains whenever somebody walks down the street. They keep fancy looking dogs, which are probably fed Caesar food and haven’t seen a tin of Pal in their life. Therefore, I think if I did allow the garden to grow and grow into the horticultural equivalent of Rik Waller, my neighbours would get a little pissed off.

So what to do? The everyday man would go down to Homebase, buy a lawnmower and a hedge trimmer, before getting to work on a Sunday afternoon. Anyone who has read my blog during its decade of existence, however, will know that I am not your everyday man. I am a lazy man. Therefore, in the words of Homer Simpson, I have taken the attitude “Can’t someone else do it?” Unlike in that particular episode of The Simpsons, I don’t think the garbage men will do my gardening. Firstly, because this is real life and The Simpsons is a cartoon. Secondly, because the garage men, well, refuse collectors, struggle to even take away basic household waste in Bath. Most of it ends up scattered down the pavement on bin day. That rant is for another day, though. Therefore, as the garbage man wouldn’t do it, I had to find a gardener. The natural answer would be to call Alan Titchmarsh.

Sadly, I was unable to find Alan Titchmarsh, despite looking on the internet, and believe me, I did look. Instead, I contacted my letting agency and asked for help. They gave me the mobile number of a man called Jack. Jack is apparently a gardener who can do some work for me at a reasonable rate. Unfortunately, Jack didn’t pick up this mobile phone when I rang. I am therefore left with overgrown foliage and no doubt annoyed neighbours, on the verge of putting a letter through my letter box, asking me to sort this whole mess out. Sigh. At least it gave me something to blog about.