In the Artweeks office I have this magnificently efficient engine, The Lynchpin, without whom all of Oxfordshire’s visual arts would surely falter.

Her family are equally wonderful, and this week I had a lovely present of some Tulip Esther bulbs from The Lynchpin’s Mum which need planting in November. Thank you.

But first I’d like to apologise to my neighbours for the state of my front lawn and promise that next year, we’ll have tulips. When I moved to this house, I inherited a miracle garden that flowered neatly in rainbow colours all year round, had a rich fruit supply along the back fence and attracted butterflies from far-flung countries.

Eighteen months on the weed quotient has risen exponentially; the colour is provided by weathered Nerf gun remnants, and the only wildlife is about four foot tall and travels by bike from nearby streets.

In my back garden deep holes lurk beneath the wildly extravagant foliage. The first priority of the boys when we arrived was to see if there was anything of interest underground (other than organic root vegetables).

The Youngest was, and still is, the proud owner of a strong metal digger of German extraction. With two levers to control a lethal scoop, a small child can do serious damage to perfectly-laid turf. And he has.

Since our arrival, we have unearthed Neolithic arrow heads, Jurassic dinosaur fossils, Bronze Age coinage, Roman stonework and something unspeakable that a cat had buried the day before, all of which were proudly slapped on the kitchen table.

Anyway, I do mean to cut the lawn every so often, I really do, though at £16 a pop for the replacement Flymo cords when the mower shoots itself over the lead, I’ve discovered that gardening is a surprisingly expensive hobby.

And I have mowed often enough to know that flip-flops should not be the footwear of choice unless you want feet like Kermit’s for the following fortnight. I even thought about a strimmer in those heady days when I could see something other than thorny undergrowth from the front room window.

But, this year both time and foliage have overtaken me.

I’d be in danger of botanical imprisonment like Sleeping Beauty (only less beautiful and more sleep-deprived) if it wasn’t for my dad. Like The Lynchpin, I am blessed with tremendous parents and a dad who is happy to wrestle man-eating weeds into my garden waste bin whenever he comes to stay.

Unfortunately for the neighbours, these parents live up North so only visit every six weeks or so. But I know things are getting bad in the garden department when the lovely couple next door start enquiring after my dad’s health and wonder idly whether they’re coming to visit again any time soon. And this time, they’re in luck. Yes they are. Don’t forget your shears, Dad!