I’ve seen the red mist. Why is the gardener triggering me?

Creating the perfect garden isn’t as simple as Charlotte Cripps imagines – not when she has to deal with an airy-fairy gardener and a dog who destroys the flower beds

Not digging it: The urge to pull the garden up by its roots is hard to resist (Illustration by Amara May)

I’m sick of playing the holiday lottery. Now that Portugal has been taken off the green list, my trip to the Algarve is hanging by a thread. So I’ve booked an idyllic seafront hotel in Cornwall just in case. I had to beg the hotel to squeeze us in, but it means sharing with my 88-year-old dad and the kids in a car park-facing room that is usually used as a pram park.

But I just need a holiday. It’s as simple as that. It has been the same for too long. Everything feels in jeopardy. Lockdown is easing – summer is here – but the British weather is as volatile as the Indian and Nepalese variant; it could all change in a heartbeat.

I’m craving a sanctuary. I turn to my garden – the sun is finally out – and I gasp in horror. I realise we can't even walk across the lawn; it's overgrown and full of dog s**t. It’s like a bombsite. For a minute I think we have moles out there – but it's huge craters dug up by Muggles.