It's summertime! Time to relax in the garden with a tall glass of Pimms and a good book and let the everyday stress melt away to the sound of birdsong.

Sounds great, doesn't it?

In actual fact, the time I've spent in my garden over the last six weeks or so has been more like being on the chain gang. So much heavy work to be done following the completion of my wonderful three-foot double wall, the solution to all my privacy challenges once I get it filled with earth and planted up.

I spent several weekends and evenings tomato-faced, puffing and groaning over the heaps of earth - well, mostly stones really - which had to be moved. I must have presented a pathetic sight, because my daughter anxiously shifted more than a few shovels full herself, no doubt thinking if I dropped dead from exertion the rest of the family would think it was all her fault.

The lads at our local tip think I should get a franchise on hard core, the amount I've carted down there in pig feed bags lately. Stones, that is, not porn.

Once the earth had gone, what remained was supposed to be lawn. I set to with hoe and rake to level it out into what passed for a tilth, and then carefully spread grass seed in the recommended ratio of weight to area. This was watched with great interest and appreciation by the local mob of sparrows, who breakfasted royally the following morning. I just hope they observed the correct ratios when they scoffed the seed, otherwise it might turn out patchy.

New lawns, as everyone knows, have to be kept watered. Since we're enjoying the first real dry spell of the summer, this meant getting the sprinkler out. Hosepipe bans have been in force for so long I had a job finding the blessed thing in the spidery depths of the shed, but eventually it was merrily spinning away, slinging water over the grass seed and unwary passers-by.

When the first bit was suitably squelchy it was time to move the sprinkler to the second bit, and next door's kids spent an entertaining few minutes watching me trying to nip in, move the sprinkler and nip out again without getting soaked. The sensible thing to do, of course, is turn off the tap first, but that's too practical for me. I'd far rather get dollops of cold water slung with some force into my face while scrabbling for a foothold on newly-seeded mud.

Several weeks have passed, and now I'm trying to pluck up the courage to mow the three inches or so of new growth. Or should I gently get on my knees, stones and all, and snip it with shears instead? I think not. Anyway, if the mower does pull some of it out, it'll blend in with the baldy patches left by the fattest sparrows in town.

Next step: the pebble pool. Watch this space.

Published: 05/06/2003