Greenfingered?

A few years ago I almost ended up buying this awesome cottage style terraced house. The front was white washed and the window sills and reveals were a lovely sky blue. Inside it was tasteful and modern, the attic turned into another bedroom, the edges lined with sunken electric tea lights. With the lights off it could have been a subterrean cave grotto.

That would have been my room.

The crowning glory of that house was the garden. Perhaps it was fifty feet long, all lawn, Rising steeply above the house, bordered on both sides by towering Leylandii that came almost right up to the walls. A totally private space with a flat area for a barbecue and a table.

It was gorgeous.

Then the survey came back. Problems with damp (it was), problems with the damp proof course (it didn't), problems with attic conversion (it sucked), problems with the kitchen extension (one good sneeze away from collapse).

So I pulled out. Eventually I bought my current house. It's got a tiny garden. Half of it is paved over. Half of the remaining half is a shed. There is grass, but a guy with no arms could stand in the middle and touch all the edges.

And right now it's a complete mess. This year, so far, I have gone out and done gardening a grand total of one time.
And by gardening I mean I've gone out with some secateurs and hacked back the hedges till they bloody well respected me. Spent at least an hour out there.

I've done some other things out there - though I don't think idly pulling up bindweed from the lawn while on the phone to your mate counts as gardening. It made the lawn look on brown as well.

It's a shame I didn't buy that quaint cottage style mid terrace after all. We might have discovered a lost Celtic tribe in there by now.