Presently, nothing is growing in my garden, but on the upside nothing can die, which suits my fragile heart
As I stare at my garden, or, more accurately, the ugly, fly-strewn dustbowl just north of my kitchen, I feel that once again I have failed in being a proper, upstanding adult. I’m not the type, say, that one sees on an ITV1 drama talking to a detective at her suburban kitchen sink, the camera panning to a neat lawn, some roses, possibly a koi carp pond and a Swingball set; all things that signify a household under control.
My garden, utterly devoid of grass (the lawn died) or any blooming flora, does not suggest domestic bliss. My garden hints at me having a heroin problem, which is untrue, although I will require some sort of opiate sedative this weekend in order to face my spider-infested shed. Only then will I be able to retrieve my loppers and hack a rudimentary path back through the out-of-control bindweed that is plotting to strangle me in my bed. After this, I shall lie on the sofa, exhausted, mewling, full of self-pity, certain that this is not the kind of August that Jools Oliver is experiencing. I cannot forget the Olivers’ outdoors wood-fired pizza oven from the original Jamie At Home series. Or the surrounding horticultural splendour.
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