Quite what the exact problem with our lawns resembling virgin jungle remains a bit like astro-physics, a complete & utter mystery to me. It is still my jaundiced opinion that this sheer quantum of vegetation not only provides a valuable global resource in the fight against rising CO2 levels but also acts as a horticultural feature counter balancing my interesting & varied collection of mole hills, some of which have now reached such positively alpine standards. We really are not talking about the manicured ironing board greenery that has long been associated with the English country garden here; I like to think of our little bit of wilderness as possessing rustic charm. After all, there is no better way of exercising the Free Markettes than by kicking them out of the back door after brekker & then phoning the Mountain Rescue Team a few hours later to get them in for supper.

However as the War Office's word really is the law west of Hungerford, it was clearly time for this most reluctant of gardeners to undertake that most onerous of annual tasks, the spring re-starting of those loathsome implements, the garden machinery. This dear readers is a task that I relish marginally less than having to dig out an in grown toe nail with a blunt chisel as the sound of those engines spluttering to life herald six months of literally fruitless toil, if our gooseberry bushes do as well in 06 as they did last year.

I know, I know, that are those of you out there that that might think that when it comes to the seemly small task of sorting out some mowers, it would present no significant challenge to a chap that lives in the sticks. Well I am sorry to have to inform you dear readers, you couldn't be further from the truth. When it comes to anything with an engine, your humble correspondent is a complete an utter spastic & unlike Tiger, I am not going to apologise for the use of that word in a pejorative context because it accurately describes the true extent of my unmitigated mechanical numptydom.

And so it came to pass that twenty minutes later neither lawn mower nor the strimmer would start. Oh deep joy! I could already see the scene sorry my darling none of it bally well works which is why you have returned to find your beloved spouse once more grafted onto the sofa of sloth, ensconced in Gun Perv Monthly.

Well that's what would have happened if I hadn't come over all blokey & done what blokes do in these sorts of situations - which is to start taking things apart. Now this is all well & good, however quite how twenty seven & a half minutes later I managed to cause the National Grid to spike when I electrified the walls of FM Towers is still under investigation. It might have something to do with strimmer's arm coming into contact with the farm's three phase power supply. However we will have to wait for the Board of Inquiry to report its findings before I can give you a definitive answer on that.

Nor as I discovered an hour later is it terribly bright to pour stale fuel into a drain that is still blocked with the detritus of winter & then once all the twigs & dried leaves have had time to properly marinate, toss in a cigarette end. Still, at least the local fire brigade were very understanding about the ensuing conflagration. After restorative cups of tea had been issued & equanimity restored, they very kindly pointed out that the events of the afternoon had provided them with an opportunity to exercise their major incident drills.

By mid afternoon & once all the excitement had subsided, everything had been cleaned, scrubbed, lubricated & reassembled. During this process, I only managed to save one part which currently still resides on the kitchen window sill - I have absolutely no idea where it goes. Sadly even this didn't prevent the very worst of all outcomes, against all the laws of & chance, everything is now actually working. Proof, as if you needed it, that you can't always statistically model probable outcomes. The monkeys might not yet have managed to type the entire Shakespeare back catalogue but I sadly have to announce that everything that resides in the shed, is running smoothly. And this is both how & why I am now condemned to the gardening gulag for the foreseeable future. Oh darkest of rages!