We're definitely going to need a bigger trowel

No word of a lie, you can see our weeds on Google Earth. That can't be good.

Tomorrow Katie is taking me to a garden centre, as we "need to do something" about our garden. All my protestations have fallen upon deaf ears:

"We're taking the environmentally-conscious approach."

"We're supporting all sorts of protected flora and fauna."

"I really couldn't give a toss."

I think the tipping point was the pictures of the previously-undiscovered tribe in South America. Katie is concerned that we may have our own versions living just beyond the conservatory. I'm not convinced, however I wouldn't be too surprised if we come across a superannuated Japanese soldier who needs to be gently informed that the war's over.

Up until a few years ago our garden was verdant, lush, and completely unmanageable. The people who'd lived here before us were clearly enthusiastic about the whole thing, so had stocked the space with dramatic planting.

It had looked great on the estate agent's photos.

Several months after we moved in, we noticed that the garden was looking rather more verdant and lush than we'd bargained for. At night-time we could hear the cries of exotic wildlife. Despite our best efforts, there was only one way this was going to go, our previous gardening experience being on a par with, well, someone with no gardening experience.

Apparently you can't just hire out flame-throwers any more. Killjoys.

So we spent a bit of cash and paid someone to take the garden away and give us another one, with a patio, gravel beds and some contained borders. And over the last few years we've pottered around nicely. Katie has built up a nice pot garden. Sorry, I'll rephrase that. A nice collection of plants in pots. We spent many a happy evening sat out there, a bottle of wine sitting in the ice-bucket, communing with something almost resembling nature and watching what we thought were the stars, but what was probably the 11.20 Alitalia flight to Amsterdam.

But last year Britain didn't have a summer. There was about 20 minutes of warmth in May, but that was it. So we really didn't touch the garden. The greenness returned. My official definition of a weed is "any plant growing where you didn't expect it", and there's a lot of the buggers around. And we have a set of bamboo plants that are clearly hell-bent for global domination, too. They show up lovely on the satellite picture.

So, tomorrow I shall be pushing a trolley around various gardening and DIY outlets, being assaulted with more Latin than a lapsed Catholic cares to hear. Then I'll be slashing and burning. Apparently this is classed as "fun". Think of me, why don't you?