A gentle bank holiday in the garden almost sparks explosive headlines

WE lost custody of the garden a couple of years back.

Our neighbour a field away, Ms Lynders, took one look at us and decided we didn’t know our iris from our elbow. We were clearly not fit to be in charge of growing things. She didn’t get legal about it. She just started to arrive, kitted for combat in boots, patched jeans and – if it was lashing rain – a headscarf to protect the white curls.

No invasion of privacy was involved. Ms Lynders arrives like an ambulance or a fire brigade; announced by noise long before physical presence materialises. This woman moves in a cloud of Pomeranians. Pomeranians are the yappiest little dogs that ever lived. They spend their lives threatening total strangers with dire consequences. They don’t distinguish. They give out to the plumber’s van with as much conviction as they use when they give out to the plumber, which doesn’t make much sense, since the van doesn’t promise to kick them into Kingdom Come the way the plumber always does. (The plumber does robust relationship-building. The first time he met me, he told me I was “a f*****g disgrace” for leaving the immersion heater on all day. You can tell he specialises in customer care.)