Rain, Rain, Go Away…

Rain, Rain, Go Away… This Gardener Wants to Play!

It’s been absolutely chucking it down all week here. The kind of rain that makes you question if you should start collecting animals two by two. And here I am, trapped inside like a caged animal - well, a slightly grumpy, tea-fueled one - staring longingly out of the window. My breath has fogged up the glass, and I look a bit like a forlorn child waiting for playtime, only instead of wanting to get in a swing, I’m itching to get my hands in the soil.

I’ve already checked the forecast 100 times. Spoiler: it still says rain. So, I’ve resigned myself to hunkering down under the duvet, armed with my gardening planner and a steaming mug of coffee. Might as well make the most of it. Carrots? Need to succession sow those. Tomatoes? Still debating the perfect sunny spot. Courgettes? They’ll take over if I blink too long.

Every so often, I shuffle over to the window, nose practically pressed against it, willing the downpour to stop. Is it easing up? No… just wishful thinking. I sigh, defeated, and return to my planning.

But this afternoon? Oh, I will be out there. Rain or no rain, I’m donning my wellies, grabbing my trowel, and reclaiming my soggy kingdom. Mud? Bring it on. There’s only so much staring out of a window one gardener can take!

Anyone else suffering from gardener’s cabin fever ? Top tip. Do not, I repeat, do not balance the steaming hot coffee cup on your belly & nod off… 😳

The Great Escape

Lord Muck

Making A Break For It

Phew. We’ve made it through January. Just.

It’s always my least favorite month, and I know I’m not alone. For gardeners, January is an endurance test of the soul. We can’t get out and play in our gardens most days, and the withdrawal symptoms are real. The result? We become tetchy, unpredictable, and - if I’m being completely honest - an absolute nightmare to live with.

Take me, for example. Thirty years of marriage this year. So, I can't be that bad, right? And yet, every January, something rather peculiar happens. Lord Muck - my dear husband - suddenly develops an overwhelming sense of duty towards his friends. Friends with urgent, mysterious crises that require his presence for hours, sometimes days.

One week, it’s his old rugby mate, who’s apparently in need of some serious help moving house (odd, given that the man lives in a studio). Then there’s the cricket pal who’s coincidentally having a breakdown and needs company at the pub. And just last weekend, Lord Muck shot off to “help” his padel partner with a family emergency, which - upon closer questioning - turned out to be “a difficult doubles match.”

roll on summer

When Gardeners Smile Again

I used to be in awe of what a truly remarkable friend he was. And always felt sorry for him the poor thing, always being called upon after the festivities of Christmas, to rescue his struggling friends throughout January. But yesterday, it all finally clicked.

It’s me.

I turn into a complete menace after New Year’s Eve. And this time, I can’t even blame menopause. I stomp around the house like a caged animal, sighing heavily at windows, glaring at the lifeless garden, and snapping at inanimate objects (including a particularly smug-looking houseplant). And when that’s not enough, I turn my fury onto my poor husband, berating him for his heinous crimes - crimes so grave they could be tried at The Hague. A teaspoon placed the wrong way round in the cutlery drawer (anarchy!). A rogue cup on the coffee table, coasterless and mocking me (the horror!). And the ultimate betrayal - returning from the supermarket with the wrong brand of chocolate. (Did he want to start a war?!)

Lord Muck, I now realize, has been staging a tactical retreat. The poor man isn’t running to his friends - he’s running for his life.

But hope is on the horizon. February is here, and with it, the promise of longer days, the scent of damp earth, and - hallelujah - the first seed catalogue deliveries. Soon, we gardeners will be back outside, smiling again, hands in the soil, no longer terrifying our loved ones.

That is, of course, until next January. At which point, I fully expect Lord Muck to announce he’s taken up a new hobby - possibly deep-sea fishing in the Maldives, to throw a bit of distance into the game…

Lord & Lady Muck

A long, long time ago when The Great Escape was just Lord Muck’s favourite film :)

Die Plant 2

Gardening is a funny old business, isn't it? For some of us, it's pure relaxation – a tranquil escape from the madness of modern life, where we can potter about, chatting to our begonias like they're old friends. But we all know someone who breaks out into a cold sweat at the mere mention of a trip to the garden centre. The very idea of taking care of a plant sends them into a full-blown existential crisis.

Take this morning, for example. I was with Ana, my lovely Spanish teacher. Normally the epitome of calm: intelligent, bright, capable, and so easy-going she practically floats into the room. That is right up until the moment I did something so unbelievably shocking that she practically fainted, right there in front of me.

I gave her a plant. A little Christmas gift to say thank you for putting up with me massacring her beautiful language over the past year.

I gave her a succulent - small, unassuming, easy to care for… or so I thought. I’d grown it myself from a cutting off my mother’s beloved plant. I handed it over with a big smile, hoping Ana would like it - but instead, she morphed into a human-shaped bundle of pure panic. Her eyes widened as if I’d just given her a live grenade. Her hands trembled as she clutched the innocent little pot. And then came her anxiety-ridden questions.

“Where do I put it? How do I look after it? How much water does it need? Does it like the sun? What about the shade? Oh no - should I bring it inside at night? What do I feed it? What if it grows out of its pot? What compost do I need? WHAT IF IT DIES?”

She grabbed my arm with the desperation of someone clinging to a sinking ship. “WHAT IF I KILL YOUR MOTHER’S PLANT?”

Ah. There it was. The nuclear fear. I had unknowingly given her not a gift, but a ticking time bomb of guilt. Poor Ana. She had gone from relaxed, patient, capable teacher to full-blown meltdown in a matter of seconds. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she asked for my mother’s forwarding address in heaven to apologise personally when the inevitable happened.

And that’s when I remembered something important: I used to be Ana.

For years, I was the Grim Reaper of houseplants. If it was green and photosynthesized, I could kill it. When I first started dabbling, I was personally responsible for a plant-based massacre so vast that, frankly, I should have been blacklisted from garden centres.

But my dear old mum - and later my mother-in-law - stepped in. With their endless patience, they taught me the basics. Slowly, my fingers turned a little greener, and I went from serial plant murderer to enthusiastic gardener. And now, here I was, watching Ana unravel in front of me - just as I had on so many occasions way back when - all because of my gift.

So, I’ve decided that my New Year’s resolution for 2025 is to support and encourage Ana.

Because that’s the joy of gardening, isn’t it? Sharing what you’ve learned. Helping beginners get past the panicky, “Oh no, I’ve definitely killed another one” phase. Reassuring those who have tried growing stuff before and are on the verge of giving up completely. Passing on our love of all things green in the hope that others might get hooked on gardening too.

But first, I think I’ll go and pour Ana a stiff whisky and distract her with her favourite film, Die Hard. And as for her Christmas succulent? I might need to pot up a back up - just in case I need to do a secret plant switch…

Gardening Heroes

Well. What a cracker of a morning. There I was, munching on a bit of toast, half asleep at the kitchen table, lazily flicking through the latest copy of Kitchen Garden - a magazine I’ve long adored, I might add - when something stopped me dead in my tracks. My book - yes, my little old book - smack bang on the Book Review page.

I’d love to tell you I stayed calm, composed, and dignified. But no. Instead, I let out a noise that can only be described as the unholy offspring of a yodel and a shriek. Lord Muck, peacefully attempting the crossword, jumped so violently he nearly spilled his coffee. (I say nearly because he has lightning reflexes. Never known a man to protect his caffeine or his beer so fiercely.)

You see, Kitchen Garden isn’t just any magazine. Oh no. This is the mag my Mum handed me a whole box of when I first decided to grow “a bit of veg” (a decision she met with an expression somewhere between mild disbelief and outright horror). That box became my bible. When I ignored all her advice - because obviously, every child always knows better than their mother - those magazines patiently coached me through every seed sowing and food gardening adventure.

LADY MUCK SENIOR & JUNIOR

Giggling at some of my growing mishaps, no doubt, when I was first starting out

I vividly remember that first bleak winter after I had decided to have a go at growing stuff - when the days were short, wet, and miserable. I’d curl up with those dog-eared magazine issues, poring over tips on watering (not too much, not too little—who knew plants were so needy?) and timing my planting (missed that one by a country mile more than once). By spring, I was armed with just enough knowledge to cause total chaos in the garden.

Fast forward to today, many years later, and there’s my book in the very pages that once saved my carrots from becoming compost. The thought of it bringing a laugh to seasoned gardeners - or dare I hope, some handy advice - to someone else starting out on their own chaotic growing journey? Well, it’s enough to make an old gardener weep. Or scream. Or, in my case, both, while Lord Muck quietly contemplates relocating to a less noisy household.

DREAMS CAN COME TRUE

“This gloriously funny book would make a great read on a cold winter’s evening and a great gift for the gardener in your life”

Blue Sky Thinking

Well, it’s been an interesting old month. My book publishers, in their infinite wisdom, have decided I must become a social media butterfly again, flitting from one platform to the next, attempting to spread petals of gardening wisdom (or some other nonsensical phrase that their PR Team tries to motivate me with in their emails lol :)

I have to be honest - this is one aspect of writing that does not have me leaping out of bed in the morning. I mean, who really enjoys staring at an iPad and attempting to craft pithy tweets when there’s a perfectly good garden outside just crying out for a bit of weeding?

But a deal’s a deal, so I’ve had to hang up my trusty trowel and get posting, and let me tell you, nothing makes you pine for a good bit of compost like trying to figure out which filter makes your lunch look the least unappetizing. For me, social media has always been a bit like nettles - useful to some, irritating to others.

And then, just as I was on the verge of throwing in the trowel, a gardening-obsessed friend swooped in to save the day. “You must try Blue Sky,” they said, with the kind of fervour usually reserved for recommending secret tomato feed recipes. “It’s like Twitter back in the day - before it moved over … well, you know… to the dark side.”

Curious, and honestly desperate for a break from crafting image captions (does anyone really care about photos of my courgette soup?), I gave it a whirl. And let me tell you—what a revelation! It’s like finding a perfectly ripe strawberry hiding under the leaves when you thought the birds had nicked the lot. Blue Sky is full of lovely people who are just like all of us plant obsessed gardeners. They’re generous, funny, and always happy to lend advice, whether it’s about battling slugs, rose varieties, or growing giant pumpkins. It’s a proper breath of fresh air - social media with a smile.

So, now I’m officially hooked. Forget trying to decipher TikTok dances or wondering what on earth a “BeReal” is - I’ve found my people - my Gardening Tribe. And I could not be happier. And if you’re not into social media, don’t worry - I’ll still be pottering around the garden, armed with a hoe and a strong cup of tea, and sharing my stories here too. But if you want to connect you will find me on Bluesky my handle there is @ladymuckstyle.bsky.social

Right, must dash. There’s a very interesting conversation going on over there as to why carrot seeds never seem to germinate in a straight line. Love it! Cheers to Bluesky thinking!

Beginner’s Luck

Miracle Grow

Plant a seed and watch it grow

Ah, book signings – what a rush! Looking out at a queue of lovely, smiling folks who’ve come to meet little old me. Shucks. And what’s been especially interesting is discovering how many virgins there are out there! Of the ‘grow your own’ kind, you naughty thing. Novice food gardeners of all ages who have wanted to have a go at food gardening for years, but just couldn’t quite get past that image of the cloth-capped allotment Grandads of the 70s.

And, if there’s one thing Lady Muck likes to do, it’s shattering stereotypes. After all, there’s a reason my book cover has Lady Muck dancing in a cocktail glass rather than digging in dungarees. I wanted it to scream, “Gardening can be fabulously fun, guys - honest” And the best part? It seems to be working. Newbies are catching the Lady Muck Style bug - inspired by her slightly bonkers adventures about gin gardens, cocktail herb bars and slug wars. Suddenly, they’re excited at the thought of growing a lovely lettuce with their own fair hands and ditching the tasteless, expensive bags of shop salads!

And correcting the glorious myth that any food grower has to be born with a spade in one hand and a perfect tomato plant in the other seems to also be helping. I mean, I didn’t even start growing until my late 30s (read why here). And whilst I was convinced my parents’ green-thumbed brilliance would magically flow into me - spoiler alert - it didn’t - my early forays into food gardening were less “farm-to-table” and more “farm-to-compost-bin.” My first veggie patch looked like a plant massacre. Wilting carrots, beans that looked one withered breeze away from a fainting spell, and a radish so pathetic it practically begged to be put out of its misery.

But here’s the thing guys – it’s ok to make a right mess of things in the beginning. Embrace your inner Lady Muck, grab a large glass of wine, and laugh at the chaos that unfolds. Gardening is not a science; it’s an adventure. Mistakes are just part of the fun. And when you dig up your very first lettuce, please, please, please, savour the moment and give yourself a pat on the back. Lady Muck Style.

Harvest festival

Lollo Rosso, Romaine, Little Gem, Salad Bowl - so many lettuce varieties to choose from - which one will you grow?

Little Girl. Big Dreams.

Dreams can come true

Always believe in your dreams

And always protect that precious orange under your arm :)

Well. It’s been quite the week for this once, anxious, little girl. My Lady Muck Style Books launched on September 20th, and here I sit on 1st October 1st - looking at photos sent in from around the world of my books in their new homes! And I could not be happier!

But I also have to confess to feeling a little lost. I mean, for the best part of a year, all I have thought about is getting these three books published. And now, they are, what on earth do I do? All of a sudden, I have free time again. Actual, free time.

Which means, more time for my garden and veggie plot! Yay!

But, more importantly, actual free time to take a moment to say a huge

THANK YOU

To all of you.

For being my biggest supporters.

My biggest cheerleaders.

My biggest Lady Muck Style ambassadors.

There is no way I could have got this project over the line without you.

So, thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Lots of love from that anxious little girl & her beloved orange x

And please keep those photos of you and my books coming! I love them!

Second Chances

wheels up

Lord Muck at my side, as always. 2002.

One week out from my book launch, I have to confess to being ever so slightly nervous. Well, when I say, ever so slightly nervous, what I really mean is wringing my hands, rocking in a corner, and eating my body weight in chocolate kind of nervous. Waking up in a cold sweat thinking wonderful thoughts: What if people hate it? What if it’s a giant flop? What if I get terrible reviews? What if I have to change my name, shave my head, and flee the country?

And then, I catch myself.

You’ve been through a lot worse than this though, haven’t you?

And you know what, I have.

You see, whilst I grew up in a happy gardening and allotment-mad household that I’ve told you about in previous blog posts…I turned my back on all that in my 20s and 30s. Opting for the city-career-girl life, working like a dog in London and Manchester as a marketing consultant for the likes of Pepsi and Sony. Monday to Friday I was a workaholic. Saturday night an alcoholic. Sunday morning a never-again-aholic. I worked hard. I played harder. The closest link I had to anything green was the vase of dead flowers on my desk.

And somewhere along the way, it all caught up with me. The crazy work hours. The crazier deadlines. The craziest clients. And one day in 1997, I collapsed in a Sainsbury’s car park. I had to be carried to the car by my young husband, Andy, and then up to our bed, neither of us realising it would be 5 years before I would be strong enough to manage a flight of stairs.

Struck down by Severe Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME) which left me little more than a breathing corpse for many years. Bedbound, in a blacked-out room in constant pain, unable to walk, talk, sit, stand, feed, or wash myself. Nursed 24/7 by my beloved husband and our two amazing Mums.

It took me many years to escape that living hell. With several terrifying relapses along the way. Bedpans, wheelchairs, and stairlifts, my new best friends. But I was one of the lucky few to find a way out. So many Severe ME Patients never do.

So, when I find myself stressing about a book launch…

I remember those hellish years trapped in bed in darkness.

I remember being unable to feed myself.

I remember being unable to walk.

I remember the pain in every inch of my body.

I remember seeing the heartache and worry etched on my husband’s face.

And I catch myself.

You’ve been through a lot worse than this though, haven’t you?

And then, I give thanks. Thanks to whoever decided to give me a second chance at this life. And hope that I’ve used it wisely - and created books that will make you smile, whatever might be going on in your life behind the scenes. And hopefully, they will encourage you to get outside too, into your gardens, grabbing second chances as you go.

Impatience is a virtue, right?

marvellous Microgreens

The perfect home-grown crop for Impatient Gardeners

I was with some friends last night, new to the whole world of food gardening - but enthusiastic about having a go, which was music to my ears. So, where to start, I thought. Microgreens. That’s the baby. Great for beginners. Especially when you might be an impatient Gardener like little old me.

So, let’s talk about how to grow your own Microgreens - the darlings of the edible world! Tiny, green, and a bit uppity, much like my old pal, the Duchess at the village fête, when the bubbly runs out. If you're the sort of Gardener who prefers instant gratification for minimal effort (like me!), then Microgreens are your new best friend.

The tender, flavour-packed seedlings of young herbs, vegetables and salad leaves, they are picked when their first true leaves appear. Microgreens most commonly grown are basil, fennel, coriander, fenugreek, rocket, sorrel, curly cress, kale and radish. I love radish, which packs a spicy, zesty punch; red cabbage, with its bright purple stems and sweet flavour too; and fennel, with a lemony, black-liquorice scent and a mild green peppery-anise flavour.

Now, let’s get down to business, shall we? Growing microgreens is delightfully simple. First, grab yourself a shallow container— some of those shallow, rectangular plastic seed trays with holes in the bottom, and some solid gravel trays for them to sit in. Fill with room temperature, peat-free compost to a depth of approx 4 cms - or, as I like to say, a decent measure of gin. And yes, peat-free - we’re eco-conscious these days, even if our gardening gloves are sometimes covered in sequins down on the allotment, much to Lord Muck’s harumphing disgust.

Next, scatter your seeds over the surface like confetti at a wedding - whatever seeds take your fancy when you’re browsing the shelves of your local garden centre. Give them a gentle pat-down (a regal tap, if you will), and lightly cover them with a whisper-thin layer of compost. A misting of water should do the trick. None of that heavy-handed watering; we want to nurture these seeds, not drown them.

Place your container in a bright spot—on a windowsill, perhaps, where it can bask in the light and you can bask in your upcoming horticultural glory. Keep the compost moist but not soggy. A little spray from a water mister every day or so will keep them happy.

Within a week or so, depending on the seeds chosen, you’ll see tiny shoots emerging. Keep up the misting and be sure to whisper words of encouragement (or sing them a Take That tune, Robbie Radish really likes that). In 7 to 14 days, your Microgreens will be ready for cropping. Simply snip them off at soil level with scissors, and there you have it—your own miniature harvest. Rich in vitamins and minerals, they are delicious added to salads and sandwiches. Plus. Added bonus. Eating them makes me feel less guilty about not going to the gym. Again.

Remember, Microgreens don’t regrow once cut, so sow new seeds every week or so to keep your windowsill garden in full production. With this little routine, you’ll have fresh, tasty Microgreens all year round. No mud-stained wellies required!

Happy snipping!

Grab a Packet of Seeds

and get growing

Try basil, fennel, rocket, coriander, sorrel, mustard, radish, kale, beetroot, spinach, watercress, oriental leaves. Yum.

Pups and Peonies

PUPS AND PEONIES

Meet Morgan - My New Gardening Intern

As you know, I love all things green. So when my dear pal, Lady Bray, entrusted me with her precious garden while she headed off to Italy for a sun-soaked holiday, I leapt at the chance.

She has the most beautiful garden - with all my favourites: hydrangeas, orchids, sweet peas, fuchsias, rambling roses, hostas, ferns, buddleias, agapanthus, lilies - you name it, she’s growing it. So gorgeous it could take a prize at Chelsea.

Throw in her equally precious pup, Morgan and rescue cutie, Jess, to take care of, and I was in heaven.

But as I waved Lady Bray off, a creeping sense of anxiety started to set in. Keeping her beloved peonies and pups alive for two whole weeks? Now, this was going to take some doing. I may even need to cut back on the gin.

I mean, we all know what an English summer can be like. With its mix of heatwaves, downpours & cold snaps, Very quickly, my days became a whirlwind of garden duties and canine antics. Night shifts standing guard over the hostas with my trusty head torch against slug attacks. Dawn alarms set to check for whitefly on the hibiscus. Basil leaves constantly scrutinised for signs of the dreaded caterpillars. Always accompanied by my enthusiastic, four-pawed Gardening Interns. Morgan who liked to help mainly by chasing butterflies and Jess by bringing me nicely chewed up wellies. Spreadsheets emerged to meticulously monitor watering schedules, ensuring not a drop too much or too little. With a dedicated section for Morgan’s special watering’ of the geranium pots. Oops.

Lady Bray loves to grow her own vegetables too, so her greenhouse and kitchen garden posed a few challenges - mainly keeping Morgan out - and Jess from digging her way over to France. But, thankfully, the cherry tomatoes and lettuces kept on cropping and the herbs, beans, and squashes kept on growing. Phew.

Despite the fun-filled chaos, there was a certain rhythm to the madness. Quickly I bonded with my charges, spending much of the day chatting to the plants & playing with the pups. Always rewarded come evening with a nice chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

Finally, the day of Katie’s return arrived. My knees shook. My heart raced. But as she walked through the garden, her face lit up with delight. Every plant was alive and well. She was thrilled. Double Phew. So, we celebrated as only English ladies do. With several jugs of Pimm’s. Under a golf umbrella. Well, it is summer in England, after all.

Working hard

Adorable Head Gardener Jess checking up on Lady Muck’s lawn mowing skills

Green Thumbs

gardeners world

Baby faced Lady Muck enjoying a summer’s day in the family garden 1970

Launching a book about all things green is a little bitter sweet when the two people who inspired me, are no longer around. All I wanted, when my proofs arrived last week, was to share my joy with those two special people: my Mum and Dad. But instead, I headed out into the garden with a cuppa, sat on my mum’s old bench and let myself take a little trip down memory lane. You see, whilst Dad is the reason I am obsessed with growing cabbages and cauliflowers, it’s Mum who got me into roses and rhododendrons.

She absolutely loved gardening. Her happy place? The verdant kingdom where she reigned supreme in her mucky wellies. Getting her inside was like persuading a cat to take a bath. Her garden was breathtakingly beautiful. With roses that would make Chelsea Flower Show sigh with envy, a lawn so green it looked like it was pinched from Wimbledon, and lavender bushes that made our house smell like Provence on a sunny day. Although as a kid whose summer holidays were spent mostly in caravans in Great Yarmouth or Northumbria, I wouldn’t really know that ‘til many years later!

While most mums were the ones calling in their kids at dinnertime, our house was the other way round. Often, Dad would joke about having to send out another search party - with whoever leading it, head-torch on, invariably finding her deep in conversation somewhere with a peony bush, or one of her favourite trees. That large garden, nestled near the border with Epping Forest, was her pride and joy. A place where she could forget her hard London childhood, when her parents were more worried about where the next meal was coming from, than whether there were flowers on the table. She created that garden for her family. She created that garden so we could run free. She created that garden so we would grow up with a lifelong love for nature. It was our playground, our sanctuary, and an endless source of adventure.

So, it’s no wonder that her passion rubbed off on me as the years went by.

Nowadays, I find myself pottering about in my own garden, whispering words of encouragement to my own flowers, just as I often watched her do to hers. Though my roses look more like rebellious teenagers than the regal queens she nurtured. But I hope that somewhere, she’s looking down on me, in her muddy wellies, smiling and cheering me on.

So, here’s to you, Mum - Lady Muck Senior - who taught me that gardening is as much about the journey as the blooms.

Mum’s Wedding Day

Thanks for passing on your green thumbs, Mum x

Strong Roots

Strong Roots

I have been going through some old photo albums this week and once you start wandering down memory lane, it’s hard to stop. Especially when you realise your love of food gardening started way back when - with your dear old Dad. .

Growing up in the 1970s, one of my fondest memories was trudging along to the allotment my Dad (Joe) shared with my Uncle. Think ‘Good Life’ crossed with a dash of ‘Dad’s Army’. Usually armed with nothing except an unfounded sense of optimism, we would merrily set off on our weekly horticultural adventure, eager to get growing.

Once there, Uncle Nobby (yes, that really was his name), would bark out orders like we were on the beaches of Normandy. “Get that spade moving, Joe” he’d say, while Dad, a man much happier raising a nice cold pint than a vegetable, provided a running commentary on all the goings-on to keep me smiling. “Looks like we’re planting spuds in the trenches again, Katie” he’d quip, before lacing his boots tight, taking a puff of his Old Holborn, and getting on with digging duty.

I remember the allotment site itself being a patchwork quilt of organised chaos. Each plot bore the distinct mark of its owner’s personality, from Mr Hodges’ regimented rows of carrots to Mrs Saville’s haphazard herb garden. Our own plot? Well, it was an eclectic mix of wonky runner beans, rebellious raspberry canes, fairy gardens, and Uncle Nobby’s prized Dahlias, all punctuated by Dad’s latest attempt at growing giant marrows, which always seem to end up more like oversized cucumbers.

Tea breaks were always the highlight, with flasks of stewed tea, homemade sandwiches, and if we were lucky, a few jammy dodgers thrown in by Mum for good measure. Uncle Nobby and Dad would reminisce about childhoods growing up during the Blitz, and observe how, in comparison, a bit of rain down on the plot never really hurt anyone. By the end of the day, Dad and I would be caked in mud, exhausted but triumphant, ready to return home with our haul (usually slug-nibbled cabbages and oddly shaped beetroots) and regale Mum with tales of our heroic hunter-gatherer deeds - as the poor woman looked down at our veggie oddballs and tried desperately to work out what concoction she could throw together, without poisoning the family.

But for me, those days at the allotment were more than just gardening and learning how to grow vegetables, fruit, and herbs - they were a rite of passage and a great lesson in perseverance, all wrapped up in a bundle of fatherly love, laughs, fun and muddy wellies.

Precious times. Precious memories.

Plus, the digging duo always managed to squeeze in a quick pint on the way home, which meant I could stop snacking on the bruised, windfall apples and end the day instead with my ultimate prize: a Coke and a packet of Hula Hoops. Heaven.

Good Life 1970s style

Thanks for helping me grow, Dad x

Say Cheese

Write a book, I thought. It will be easy, I said.

Hmmm. Well, that’s partly true, I guess.

I mean, the writing part was just lovely. Shut away in my little office, month after month, eating chocolate hobnobs and tapping away on my keyboard, living and breathing all things gardening and grow your own and channeling my inner Lady Muck Style. Loved it. But all the other stuff that goes with it. Jeez. Particularly when the Publishers emailed me the date of the PR photo shoot. Ugh. You see, I hate having my photo taken. Freeze up as soon as I see a camera. Let photos of my plants, veggies, and beach trips take centre stage, I begged. But no, they were having none of it.

So, last month, I found myself squeezing into my wardrobe’s finest, wandering around my garden and allotment in full makeup, which in itself was hilarious. I mean, who wears makeup out gardening? Lady Muck, apparently - well, at least for the purpose of a photo shoot. Back into my wellies and scruffy jeans tomorrow ;)