My elder son Archie made his first vegetable garden this year, in the back garden of a slightly scummy, student infested house in deepest Peckham. It was a very enterprising community effort by all of his housemates, involving sporadic (though manic) digging interspersed with frequent short fag breaks. The film of the process can be viewed here.

They then planted a whole load of stuff. Mostly without following any of the instructions, but who among us can say that we have always adhered religiously to what the label says?

Nobody?

I thought as much.

They sowed far too many cabbages, a raft of beetroot and battalions of lettuces. These then grew up slightly congested and choked. The brambles elbowed their way in and I then received a text message asking what the mysterious scrambling plant with White trumpet like flowers was. As you have probably guessed, it was a fine specimen of convolvulus, or common bindweed.

The next trauma to hit their nascent efforts was the cabbage white butterfly, which fluttered in and deposited eggs. These hatched into caterpillars, which then proceeded to demolish the cabbages. (For future reference this is best avoided by covering the developing cabbages with horticultural fleece, through which the butterflies cannot lay eggs. Either that, or gird up your loins for a session of egg and caterpillar squishing.)

These things happen to all who garden and we learn to roll with the punches. We have two options: one is to despair and beat our breasts in frustration, the other is to make the best of it and carry on carrying on.

Archie has chosen a third option: move to another flat with no garden.

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