Today I am writing in praise of digging. I love it in all its mucky, back-breaking glory. Over the last week I have been digging up my front garden – not because a. I urgently need the space for potatoes, what with the credit crunch and all, or b. I think there’s an Iron Age burial ground nestling underneath my manky turf. No, I am creating a dry garden – a little arid desert of cactus and succulents. This entails taking up said manky turf and scattering pea shingle willy nilly. Now, unlike the majority of people in my very comfortably-off barrio, I don’t have recourse to Girls in Gardens or The Bush Man or Mister Green and his Magic Fingers. I do it myself, but oh, the pleasure. I won’t bore you with the size of my worms or the depth of my roots. Suffice it to say I’ve blown my bushes to buggery and ripped out my weeds with a savagery I never knew I had. Aaarrrggghhhh.�