Two egg-sized potatoes were peering out of the soil when I ventured over to the mucky patch this afternoon.

They were crying to be prised out of the soil, so I did.

Back at home I boiled up a pan of water and cooked both. Not exactly the best use of energy. I ate them in five mouthfuls with a dollop of mayonnaise.

‘Was it worth it?’ I hear you cry. They were the best potatoes in the world… ever.

I have been away on holiday for ten days and woke up in cold sweats at the thought of triffids taking over the allotment.

It wasn’t that bad. But it was still shocking how such a short time can change things beyond recognition.

Took to the earth with vigour (and a hoe), but felt guilty when I sliced a worm in half. It didn’t seem to mind and crawled off in opposite directions. I wish I could do that.

Was also disconcerted by the appearance of a golf ball, nestling in the middle of my strawberry patch.

Now Southfield golf course is about 80 yards away, but – and I am no Greg Norman – must have been one hell of a slice.

It made me wonder whether I should be wearing some kind of head gear while tending the patch.

At that moment, a pigeon dropped its own white ball about two feet away as I rested on my hoe. Another reason to take action, I think.