Last weekend I decided to get medieval on the brambly bank that runs down my lane. The lane has been an eyesore ever since Charlie and I bought this house, and I figure that it deserves the same care and attention as the rest of the garden. If there's one thing that I really abhor, it's ivy. Ivy strangles trees and pulls down walls, and it is the bane of my life. You can't kill it by spraying its leaves with noxious chemicals, because they just slide off the waxy surface like crocodile tears down the face of Michael Jackson. I chop it and pull it; but it always creeps up again just as soon as my back it turned, working its tendrils into the crumbling mortar, lifting tiles and sticking limpet-like to the stonework. I hate it.

Then there are the brambles; brambles and me have a grudge match every so often and I always come off worse. I get so carried with my flailing, frenzy that I become immune to the barbarous thorns that rip into my flesh. I pull away from the hedge and there's always one bit, the biggest, baddest bit, that I've missed because it's buried in the back of my work shirt, and it pulls me back into the hedge with claws that scratch and teeth that bite, as if to say, 'come back in here if you think you're hard enough'. And I thrust my arm deep into the heart of the undergrowth and snip the tough, woody stalk with my trusty Felcos, and retire. Hurt. My arms, after a long session in the hedge give me the appearance of a self-harming heroin addict, which may work in Soho, but is not a good look in a small, sleepy village in Devon. Livid red scratches and wheals run from wrist to elbow, and I look at them and think, 'What man is going to want you when you let yourself get in this kind of state? But any man who takes me on is going to have to understand that I have spent a long time alone in the brambly hedge, that I bear the scars and scratches, and that they are worn with pride. One day a dashing knight will ride up the lane, with a tin of Germolene and a flask of tea, he'll tell me to stop working and tend to my wounds, he'll pour me some tea and he'll make it all better. And I'll look at the pink ointment, turning red with blood on the raised red scratches, and sip the tea and think to myself, 'I needed that.'

But for now I have an unruly lane to clear and there's no time to sit and dream of medicinal knights and warming beverages, because there's work to be done.

There's only one way to get ivy and brambles off a Devon bank, and that's by brute force. Rosie joins me, and together we work, she with a crowbar, easing off the sinewy grip of the strangling tendrils, and me with a pair of thick gloves, pulling and ripping anything that looks even remotely like a weed. Rosie wears a shirt, rolled at the sleeves and tied at the waist, because it's way to big for her slim frame. She thinks it's my weekend work shirt, but I tell her that it belonged to her daddy. And she looks at me and her face lights up; she is close to her daddy that day, and close to me, and the happiness of working alongside my big girl, outside, in the fresh air is beyond words. And then she did something for me, which for me is the most liberating, loving thing anyone can do when I'm working outside. She made me a cup of tea. Tea is a panacea for me. I can survive a day of privation and hard manual labour if I know there'll be a cup of tea at the end of it. It revives me and nourishes me. It is the mug that cheers.

So we sat in the dappled sunlight, amid the piles of ivy and severed bramble stalks and drank our tea. Villagers walked past and stopped to chat, I sat and sipped my tea, warmed by the sunshine and by the company of my daughter. Alice came out and joined us briefly, but the work was too hard, and the brambles too fierce, so after a while she went back inside; and when I staggered in at lunchtime, muddy, bleeding and exhausted, contemplating the task of getting lunch for the three of us, I discovered that my little Alice had laid the table and set it out with our lunch. Quietly and without fuss, she had fetched pork pie, ham, soup, cheese and a crusty loaf, and placed them on the table, along with plates and butter and all the things we'd need for our lunch. And when I came inside and saw what she's done I could have wept. And then I knew that I have all I need; that I don't need manicured nails and a monthly course of Botox in order to feel good about myself. So what if I have scratches? So what if I have muddy boots and tired legs? I have my darling girls and a happy life.

The lane is now clear of ivy and brambles, the bank is planted with beech, hornbeam and blackthorn, and I'm eagerly awaiting the arrival of Colin and his men, to do all the stuff that I can't manage to do. I've bought a crab apple tree for each of us to plant when the work is done, the gates arrive next week, and all we need now is a bit of sunshine. I used to be known for repeating a little rhyme at this time of year, which I'd come out with in the pub and make the local bays giggle. My friend Nigel reminded me of it when he stopped to chat after seeing me in the lane last week. It used to be apt because I was young, lusty and newly married, and quite partial to a long walk with Charlie on a balmy spring evening.

'Hooray, hooray the first of May, outdoor sex begins today.'

Fat chance - it's cold, blustery and the bluebells are being flattened by sheets of icy rain. There's no sign of the gentleman with the Germolene, so I'm off for another cup of tea...


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