LAST Sunday, when I could have been enjoying a well-earned (well, I think so even if my husband and children don't) lie in, I was out in the garden trying to force wooden stakes into frozen earth.

I was marking out what we hope will be the start of a new life for us. If all goes to plan, next year we will no longer be known as Helen and Andrew, we will be Tom and Barbara, and we will be living The Good Life.

When we looked for a new home earlier this year, a decent-sized garden was high on the list of wants. This was not intended for home entertaining, with lavish barbecues under patio heaters (aren't they hideous, like something from a chicken hatchery) or for growing prize blooms, although I'd like to have a go. We wanted enough space to grow our own food, to cultivate beans, peas, courgettes, potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, and save vast amounts of money in the process. We wanted to be like Tom and Barbara Good.

On many occasions, while living in the middle of town, I had imagined myself out in the country, decked out in thick woollies and flowery wellies, tilling the soil.

In my dreams, I also fancied a few chickens to keep the egg supply coming, a couple of goats for milk (and to keep the grass down), and possibly a pig.

Now I have learned that I am not alone in that longing. The Good Life re-runs have inspired people to bring the countryside into their back garden, to turn their suburban homes into mini-farms.

Across the country, more and more of us are chasing the dream and trying life as modern-day Tom and Barbaras.

But while the dream is great, the reality isn't quite the same. We now live in a village where, when talking Good Life, it is easy to feel inadequate. Whereas in town, the nearest our neighbours got to being green-fingered was sticking tomato plants in grow-bags, here virtually everyone has an en-suite market garden. I have yet to meet anyone who doesn't grow just about every variety of vegetable you can buy in the supermarket. Our next-door neighbours have chickens - whose wonderful eggs we have enjoyed - and the house two doors down has hens and ducks.

We have a lot of catching up to do and almost everyone seems keen for us to get going. With offers of help on all fronts, we feel that after six months we should be growing something other than grass.

So I spent Sunday morning marking out the patch of ground where, with any luck, we will grow our own. We have got to double-dig it, whatever that means, and I haven't got a clue when to plant things. The 'plot' has already caused heated arguments between me and my husband.

As for chickens, a friend fancies going halves on a pair, with care and maintenance shared equally. I like the idea, but am tortured by the thought of foul pest, Chinese bird flu' and vet's bills.

Goats are, to my mind, just too much of an unknown quantity, and pigs are lovely as cute, squealing pink piglets, but they do tend to grow into fairly sizeable creatures too big to nestle on a rag rug in front of the Aga (and no, I certainly do not want one of those). Even the wellies have gone by the wayside, patterned being too expensive.

The stress is mounting before we've even started. Good Life, I don't think so. I'm on the lookout for a top floor loft apartment.

Updated: 08:54 Tuesday, November 30, 2004