Smoke signals

Don't think you can escape that easily. When you retire from the stress of the office to tend your roses do not expect a peaceful life, for the anxiety caused by a sick rose causes no less angst than the managing partner visiting you with a crocodile smile and telling you that for the third month running you failed to meet your target. So, what is it like if you have not retired and still have to tend your roses?

It is therapeutic to experience the suffering of others. That is why we always slow down to rubber neck the aftermath of a road accident (and some of us of course take the opportunity to toss out a few business cards to the victims as they sit on the road side). Similarly, it is fun at election time to see the politicians you loved to hate being made to walk away into the sunset. As we are British our emotions are complex: although we revel in the suffering of others, our sense of fair play cuts in and we are just as likely to develop strong sympathy for the victim '“ just as we did at the poignant departure of Gordon Brown hand in hand with his wife and two small boys. So, for your pleasure go ahead and enjoy this year's crop of Barr disasters.

Don't forget the fags

The haunting melody started to trickle from my right thigh. As usual it always happens at inconvenient moments '“ when I am driving, taking a pee or, as on this occasion, at the supermarket checkout. That particular tone means just one thing. On previous mobiles it was the Monty Python theme, then it was a strident noise that sounded like a symphony of car horns. Whatever the tone, you do not ignore your wife '“ at least I don't ignore mine.

The message was simple and in some households might not have been surprising: 'On your way out, can you get me a packet of cigarettes.' I know it has been a stressful time for her lately, what with the accident with the bees and the great chicken massacre, not to mention the invasion of crows. But to the best of my knowledge neither of us has ever smoked.

Buried by bees

Yes, it was a while back that I came out of the front door one sunny morning to see Kirsten lying in the grass. Even to my unobservant nature there was something amiss about her taking a nap in the grass so early in the day. But she was not alone. Lying beside her was a step ladder with a bent leg, and on top of her were about 20,000 bees and a cardboard box.

Eventually she sat up with bees circling her in a good imitation of the stars that orbit cartoon characters when they are clubbed on the head. She had been trying to catch a swarm and had climbed to the top of an unsecured step ladder, holding the box above her to entrap the bees. You can imagine the rest. Even with the mother and father of all headaches, it still took a week to persuade her to go to her doctor who ordered her to hospital immediately with the most effective referral letter in medical history: 'Please see this lady who has suffered a head injury. Her husband is a clinical negligence lawyer and her daughter is a brain surgeon.'

Within a nanosecond of our arrival at A&E, she had been shown into a cubicle where a consultant was waiting for her '“ who not only took charge of her case but personally wheeled her to the radiology department for a CT scan. Fortunately, it was all clear, but that referral is a technique I recommend if you are a penniless lawyer and cannot afford to go private.

Avian aggro

Following the arrival of the ducks last year, our garden has now been granted the coveted Golden Bill Award by the Mallard Times. Last year's crop of ducklings eventually shed their downy feathers and grew into real ducks. Despite the predictions of the RSPCA, they did not leave in the winter. Not only did they not leave, they invited their mates. Throughout the spring, successive mother ducks have arrived at our pond with delicious yellow ducklings which were soon spotted by the crows that occupy the taller trees.

In an attempt to forestall the inevitable massacre, we placed two stuffed birds of prey on long bendy poles and tied plastic bags on others. For about half a day this fooled the crows (but puzzled the neighbours for longer: they were convinced we were performing voodoo rites) until they decided that this was a further invitation to have duckling for tea. The upshot is that there is but one nervous duckling on the pond. There is also a salivating crow looking down on it.

This gets too depressing. Just accept that we went into chickens this year. We started with five. They were very sweet and sang to you as they demonstrated that they are the first creatures in our household actually to earn their keep. But then along came the fox... Now the surviving chickens live behind an electrified fence which has so far defied the foxes.

Jock shock

Let me give you a tip if you are a man. If you choose to step over an electric fence, do make sure you are well insulated between the legs, or you might end up like me '“ sparking in places where you would rather not.

Which, of course, brings me back to the roses. Feeling about as self conscious as a teenager asking for a condom, I approached the tobacco kiosk and bought the cheapest and most dangerous cigarette pack.

But Kirsten was not about to smoke. All she wanted to do was poison the green fly on the roses with cigarette fumes. That's a relief. Still, after the stresses of spring, I think I might take the pack behind the bicycle shed to calm my nerves. Perhaps after my encounter with the electric fence it might help to stop me speaking in a high-pitched voice. And then maybe I can get back to doing a bit of law '“ for a rest.

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