Readers will recall that I have struggled both with getting fit and getting into my garden

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I say struggled.  I mean “am too goddam lazy to get off my arse but am awesome at coming up with excuses as to why I don’t have too”.  Well, Spring has sprung, and pleas in mitigation of fitness are no longer being heard.  I have, dear reader, found the answer!

My mate Sam is married to my mate Andy, and my mate Andy has an allotment. But my mate Andy also has a slipped disc, meaning he needs allotment-help. Meanwhile, Danish BF is missing his Scandi-land veggie patch, and is yearning for grubby nails.  See where this is going?  Yes, you’re correct.  The boys’ combined ingenuity and not inconsiderable charm has convinced me that what I need back at Familien Dawes (yes, I’m learning Scandi-lingo, bear with…..) is to share Andy’s allotment.  I, for once, agree.

Allotments are completely brilliant.  They give you food, keep you fit, and remind the urban dweller that nature is a truly fabulous thing.  As BF and I walk through the gates, we are suddenly no longer in London.  The noise of cars is replaced by birdsong.  Concrete gives way to grass.  All around are apple trees and compost heaps.  Deep breaths, fresh air, a sense of calm, and all 20 minutes from the City.  Perfick.

We ask to meet Andy onsite and he sends the best-ever set of directions: “up the slope, past the bee hives, left at the ramshackle sheds”.  So, we arrive, eager and excited, at our own little bit of heaven.

It was at this moment that the ideal of a bucolic paradise met with the reality of a slipped disc, and we were back down to earth with a bump.

Blimey.  Andy has some serious weed(s).

I say some weeds.  Actually all Andy has is weeds – although if you look carefully you can maybe see some rhubarb and the tantalising possibility of a raspberry cane.  Suffice to say it only takes a few months of absence due to back pain for Mother Nature to decide you are no longer a deserving custodian of a small patch of mud and that it’s time to reclaim her dominion.  She’s sent in her army of brambles and couch grass, the vigour of which makes it abundantly clear that if we want to see so much as a solitary cabbage leaf, boy are we going to have to work for it.

So, this fine Bank Holiday weekend finds me and BF hacking away at the densest jungle this side of Borneo (sort of), splattered with mud, hair stuck with sweat to our foreheads.  I know I said I like gardening (and getting fit), but I’m pretty sure I won’t enjoy self-induced paralysis, especially if all I have to show for it is a baby carrot and a couple of petit pois.  Stop sniggering.

Andy, you can keep your nettles and hang the dandelions.  This fitness stuff is way over-rated and there’s Scandi-noir on the telly.

Just take me to Waitrose and show me the rocket. Order restored.