In which the Domestic Daemon discovers that self-sufficiency involves an alarming amount of physical labour

I have a rather lovely image of myself as a gifted gardener.

In this delightful fantasy, I am practically self-sufficient, providing our household with an abundance of fresh fruit and vegetables from our allotment.

The vegetables grow in neat, orderly rows. The fruit bushes are heavy with berries. The herbs flourish, the flowers bloom and not a single weed dares show its face.

There are tomatoes, courgettes, potatoes, carrots and all manner of exotic produce, each thriving under my expert supervision.

I wander gracefully between the beds, wearing a charming straw hat and carrying a wicker basket, occasionally pausing to admire the fruits of my labour.

It is a beautiful picture.

Let us dwell on it for a moment.

Because the moment we stop imagining and actually visit the allotment, the whole thing becomes considerably less attractive.

Our allotment is seventy square metres of what can only be described as agricultural rebellion.

The weeds are waist-high.

The soil is stubborn.

And the entire plot appears to have been colonised by vegetation which has absolutely no intention of making way for anything edible.

I love my allotment.

Or, to be more precise, I love the idea of having an allotment.

I love the notion of being a productive, self-sufficient member of society, harvesting my own vegetables and looking down with quiet satisfaction upon those poor souls obliged to purchase theirs from supermarkets.

What I do not particularly enjoy is the gardening.

Have you ever tried digging, turning and weeding seventy square metres of land?

It is bloody hard work.

There is bending.

There is kneeling.

There is sweating.

And, worst of all, there is the deeply discouraging discovery that weeds possess an enthusiasm for growing which no cultivated vegetable has ever demonstrated.

You can spend an entire afternoon clearing a patch of ground, only to return a few days later and discover that the weeds have reclaimed it.

I suspect they hold meetings while we are away.

Possibly with refreshments.

However, I have devised a brilliant solution.

This autumn, while our neighbours are enjoying the fruits of their labour and proudly carrying home baskets of freshly harvested vegetables, we shall turn over the soil.

Then we shall cover the entire allotment with a large sheet of that wonderfully practical black plastic which prevents anything from growing underneath it.

And leave it there.

For a year.

Possibly two.

Until every last weed has been thoroughly suffocated.

Dead as a dodo.

Just think of it!

No weeding.

No digging.

No endless battles with plants that refuse to understand who owns the land.

The allotment will be beautifully quiet, and I shall be free to devote my energies to far more agreeable pursuits.

Naturally, we won’t have any vegetables either.

But one must be prepared to make sacrifices in pursuit of the perfect garden.

And when we finally remove the plastic, perhaps in a couple of years, we shall have a magnificent blank canvas on which to begin our agricultural empire.

Assuming, of course, that I can summon the enthusiasm to plant anything.

You just wait.

We shall have a splendid allotment in no time.

Or, at the very least, in a few years.

Self-sufficiency, I have discovered, is considerably more enjoyable when somebody else does the digging.

Editor’s note, 2026: I eventually moved to the countryside and now grow my own vegetables. The weeds are still winning.