Hugh Reilly: Dig for misery in the wild green yonder

I SENSED it was time to tidy up my garden when I peeked out of my net curtains and spotted a cordon of stick-wielding policemen sweeping through my, erm, front lawn in search of an escapee from Barlinnie.

My lack of affinity with agricultural pursuits can be traced back to the Cultural Revolution, when Chairman, oops, Chairperson Mao, despatched thousands of teachers and other intellectuals to work the land on communal farms. Soon, the soft hands that had suffered nothing more than a paper cut were covered in calluses. Bent-double by months of toiling in the paddy fields, the schoolmasters and mistresses steadfastly maintained their rock-bottom level of morale by forming huddles to moan about the lack of summer holidays and the family-unfriendly hours. As a recently demobbed dominie, I consider the act of voluntarily spending time in a garden an insult to the pain and humiliation my Chinese colleagues endured. Their sacrifice should not be in vain. The crackdown on benefit cheats has drained the local black economy of individuals willing to cut my grass for 3 per hour. I grudgingly pulled out my green finger.

Gardening is backbreaking work … and that's just getting the shovel, fork, hoe, rake and mower out of the shed. For four years, the rickety hut has had no padlock, yet not a single burglar has had decency to rob me of my agrarian implements. Last summer, my mains-electric hedge trimmers bit the dust with a mighty bang and a puff of blue smoke. (I half expected a genie to pop out and answer my wish by magically creating a topiary masterpiece).

Consequently, a rusty set of shears is now my cutting-hedge technology. To begin with, I am very motivated, snipping and clipping like Edward Scissorhands on methyl nitrate, but I soon become very bored. The only challenge occurs when I attempt to prune the holly bushes. This is a tricky endeavour at best but when one's hand-me-down gardening gloves have lots of holes, it's a prickly experience. Onlookers must think I'm receiving electric shocks from my secateurs as I intermittently curse and jump. The next major task is to dispose of the large amounts of organic waste. It's tempting to leave everything where it falls and call it either a compost heap or my latest conceptual art entry for this year's Turner Prize. Gathering the green rubbish and the life forms that lie within it, I place it in my Citroen Saxo and head off to the nearest Recycling and Reclamation Facility - ie, the council tip.

The tip closest to my abode is only three miles distant, but it is operated by - heaven forbid - a prosperous local authority that is not the one to which I pay my council tax.

This council is a tad touchy about Glasgow intruders using their skips, but why should eco-warriors such as yours truly travel further and leave a bigger carbon footprint just to please those who think nothing of using Glasgow's museums, parks, theatres and shopping centres for free? At the dump, it's like a scene from The Guns of Navarone as I drive up and try to convince the goons at the checkpoint I am one of their own and not a fifth-columnist fly-tipper. My palms sweat as a grumpy guy in a high-vis jacket looks at the cargo before, thankfully, giving the all-clear for the barrier to be lifted. During the war, government exhorted us to dig for victory. Given the high price of food, the good life of growing your own vegetables has gained popularity. Believe me, growing your own crops will only result in despair and possible bankruptcy. Last year, I invested heavily in strawberry plants. At harvest time, only three strawberries had sprouted and they were nicked by the neighbour's granddaughter. She claimed she'd seen a cat eating them. I'm no Colombo, but she blushed when I pointed out that this cat must have escaped from the circus because, despite having no thumbs, it managed to undo the reef knots holding down the protective netting.

To be fair, I did enjoy remarkable success when growing lettuce, the produce heartily eaten by a voracious mob of nocturnal slugs, caterpillars and other creepy-crawlies. When I found myself considering buying night-vision goggles to catch these veggie-thieves, I knew I had lost the plot.

If you ever see me smiling with a shovel in my hand, you'll know I am digging my own grave.