I step back and let out a deep sigh of bliss.

To an Englishman, owning a pristine lawn is the most satisfying experience in the world that doesn’t involve trumping somebody in an argument in the pub about road directions. The grass is the greenest shade of green, wafting slightly in the wind, and the cracks between the strips of turf are now almost invisible. Truly I am finally Lord of my own Manor.

I resolve to ring the Turf Man and thank him once more. It is a great feeling when you find a new tradesman who’s friendly and helpful, who gives you an absolute bargain and who delivers on time. The Industrious Builders as well. They laid it expertly, and the younger one even called me ‘Boss’ without making me feel like he was taking the piss. A bird chirrups somewhere up in the Scots Pine.

Each blade seems somehow right. The carpet of turf sweeps towards the carrstone wall, a soft and verdant contrast to the –

There is a weed in my lawn!!!

I glare at it from the gravel path. It is definitely a foreign object. Insulting the virginity of green with its sullen weedness.

I am a bit stumped as to what to do, as nobody is allowed to walk on the new turf. In the end I lie flat and sort of stretch out face down on the lawn, spreading my weight as I reach and grab the intruder.

“That’s not a weed,” explains my Mother, who has appeared behind me like the Creeping Death. “It looks like a potato.”

“It is a potato,” she concludes, after examination. “Look at the leaves. They’re quite sturdy and…”

But I am not listening. I can see another one slightly further from me. I try to think what to say, but I am nonplussed. There are potatoes growing in my new lawn. My back garden is a potato field.