Monday 27th June

I decided yesterday afternoon that enough, really was enough.

When your back ‘lawn’ has grown to such an extent that letting the dog or the kids out to play, means not seeing them again for the next twenty minutes, it’s probably a sign that you need to borrow one of those mower things.

All that has been visible of my family’s attempts to enjoy our English country garden, has been the very top of the grass parting as one or the other of them scampers hither and thither way down, among the roots.

I imagine a childhood like this must be considered normal in the prairies of the USA but, as the Teenager has pointed out on more than one occasion, we aren’t in Kansas as ‘any-moron’ will be able to tell you.

Two mutter, mutter, shove, shove hours later, I was the proud owner of an emerald, Wimbledon-esque patch of the green, green grass of home (admittedly, you needed to squint a bit if you wanted to achieve the full effect, but still).

I on the other hand was a bright-red, sweaty, green-stained, dirt-smeared, vision of 300 degree, hair-dripping, garden-iness.

The Teenager chose that very moment to open the front door and tell the doorbell-ringing, flower-clutching, Handsome-Rob that I was “out there” and that it would be just dandy for him to “go on through.”

Oh Lordy, Lordy.

Not only was he clutching flowers for me, he had also brought Annabelle a Disney DVD (because she’d been poorly) and the Teenager a book about successfully negotiating your young adult years without getting yourself ‘nicked’ again (long story).

Mindful of the fright that HR must have experienced when he was confronted with the sight of me hacking at a fourteen foot thistle with a carving knife, I leapt into action and, like the well prepared hostess that I really am, offered him a cup of tea.

No tea-bags.

Nor was there any coffee powder, and a scramble around under the sink, the towels in the airing cupboard and my bed revealed, there was no alcohol either.

We ended up drinking tomato and herb Cup-a-Soup whilst perched on my one and only remaining, creaking, canvas sun lounger.

It was dead romantic.

In a trailer-trash-chic kind of way.

Don’t ‘spect I’ll be seeing him again as by now, he too must have finally decided that enough, really is enough.