This is a never ending story. Of gloom, despair and one man's failure to triumph over nature and everyday life.

That's me all over.

I just cannot keep up with the demands of the house, the garden, the day job and family.

We constantly wish our lives away, and for what? Can't wait for the weekend for some free time and a rest. Then, after a weekend of chores, can't wait to be back at work for a rest.

Summer - a time for relaxing in the garden, cremating sausages on the barbecue and falling over from too much exertion in the beer cans department. Phooey!

Before you can enjoy the garden, you have to work your little wellies off making it presentable.

We have three football pitches of lawn - well, it seems like that - and an orchard. If we left it for two weeks, it would resemble the grounds of Sleeping Beauty's castle, which only a flame thrower and machete could penetrate.

Trouble is, the planets are never in true alignment for gardening. When the rare combination of me having the time and energy occur simultaneously, it rains.

Then I stare guiltily through the window, watching the grass grow another two feet and wishing I had not put it off yesterday. As I stare out of the window, I notice the frame needs sanding and painting, the ivy is threatening to throttle the chimney pot, and the council is about to send in the Triffid team to sort out our weeds.

Ladders are not my thing, especially the morning after the night before. I can get up there, but then my legs start to tremble and the bouncy ladder threatens to trampoline me next door.

But that wonderful flower display in the guttering suggests a rich bed of soil which has to be cleared. And at roof level it's purgatory - I can see into the pub garden opposite, where the weekend drinkers are enjoying their free time.

Just as I notice the shed, greenhouse and fence need staining, I realise I must send out a search party for the wife. She disappeared into a shrubbery three hours ago and hasn't uttered a peep since.

If I creep up on her I'll find she has strung up a hammock and is swinging away with Cosmopolitan and a gin and tonic. If I don't go down there, she'll emerge bedraggled saying it was hell in there. But she has trimmed three miles of lawn edging with her nail scissors, poor dear.

OK. So we live in a country village and have a huge garden that we could not afford in York. We chose it and we have to put up with the consequences. But I've only listed some of the jobs that need doing outside.

Inside, there's the weekend washing, ironing, dusting, cooking... and drinking.

So whatever happened to the lazy Sundays with a whole Amazonian rainforest full of newspapers spread across the lounge floor?

Get a gardener, advise our friends. Get a cleaner, get a decorator. Send your shirts away to be ironed; send your grass away to be cut. Or buy a fourth-floor flat with a window box.

Where's the fun in that. What would we have to complain about and what would we do with the spare time?

If we had a flat, we couldn't have a barbecue or sunbathe on the patio, even though we have no time for those things now.

And if we employed a cleaner, gardener or shirt presser, we could not afford the house. I reckon if I did not have to go out to work, I'd have the time for the chores. But I could not pay the bills.

The only answer is to wish my life away again. I'm not praying for the weekend, I'm praying for snow and ice.

Roll on winter, when the weeds and grass hibernate and you have a perfect excuse for enjoying a lazy day in front of a log fire.

Updated: 09:02 Tuesday, May 17, 2005