I hope you can read this okay.

I’m having to type with pencils taped to my fingers because my hands are currently home to a colony of blisters.

That’s right, guys, gardening season is back in full force!

The mini summer that we experienced the other week not only saw a sudden influx in angry-looking young men sporting shellsuit pants and no upper body garments, it also served to help the grass grow two feet overnight.

I thought I’d be lucky and get to July without having to wrestle my 20-year-old mower out of the shed, but no.

How it still works is beyond me. It’s ancient.

It doesn’t even run off electricity – it’s full of old cogs and cranks and has bicycle wheels on it.

I think it was actually the prototype for the Model T.

So I rode the thing out into the back garden, a black smoke cloud trailing behind me.

I began the soul-destroying task of destroying the rainforest behind my house.

I hadn’t attempted to trim it since about September so, as you can imagine, it was like walking about on the set of Predator.

I even had to cordon off a small corner of the garden in the name of habitat conservation after I discovered a tribe of indigenous people had set up home there.

There were around 40 shellsuit-clad, cider-drinking individuals who greeted me with the words “aye, eh”. I think the shirtless one was the leader.

I resumed activity on the garden and, no word of a lie, it took me about three hours to cut the front and back gardens.

Plus I still hadn’t managed to repair the strimmer which accidentally broke two years ago after I threw it at the wall, leaving me with just a pair of hairdressing scissors to trim around the edges of the grass.

As you can imagine, I was on the verge of dying due to a combination of infected, bleeding blisters and repetitive strain injury.

I was soon seeking comfort from Mr Paracetamol, but an even greater painkiller was the satisfaction that my garden looked great – at least for a week.

I parked my derriere on the back step and then tried in vain to light a cigarette with a disposable lighter.

I swear people were going to be able to see the bones through the flesh in my hands soon.

Next minute, I hear the familiar buzzing of a lawnmower.

I turned to see a neighbour had decided to cut their grass – obviously copying me.

Why? Why do folk do that?

I can’t even cut my grass or put some washing on the line without someone else deciding to do the same!

I’m going to start washing the car with the bags of “treats” I’ve collected from the garden after the dog has cleaned herself and see if they follow suit.

My annoyance soon turned to joy, however, when the all-familiar rain clouds soon decided to empty themselves all over Workington once again.

“Yeah… only managed to mow half the grass… now your lawn will be looking like a toddler after its first haircut.”

I celebrated my pathetic victory by partying with the tribe beside the flower bed.

It seemed a fitting way to mark the one time I will cut the grass this year.

I couldn’t cope with the stress of being mimicked twice in 2017.