The slugs have surprised me this year. They are huge and look more like snakes with horns. The last one I squidged was so big that its head shot out from under my toe cap while its tail propelled itself from my heel, leaving a sludge-print to haunt me for the rest of my life. So I need a new guilt-free way of dealing with these slimy foes.

I attempted to train the local cats to enjoy playing with them and then finish them off. If they could get as much pleasure out of a slug as a frog all would be better balanced in my eco-world. I found the fittest slug, really quite a quick mover and tied a bit of string onto it. The local cat seemed entirely uninterested as I jerked the string just as it was squatting. The cat looked straight at me as I pretended not to be watching, and gave me such a look of utter contempt that my face went the colour of Dahlia Bishop of Llandaff.

The local alcoholic is leaning up against my front wall again. He moves extremely slowly, particularly up the hill, and is not a pretty sight. My front garden needs all the help it can get to look less ugly than it does, and he is not helping. The Superstar rose was a bit of a hangover from the last owner, and though its mottled blooms contrast rather nicely with his slightly variegated face, I’d rather not see both in one frame. I grin at him and he wants a conversation, so we talk as he sprays me with somewhat rancid, cider-soaked warmth, while we slowly move beyond the sight-line of my front window.

There is a small and significant patch of ground by the local shops, opposite the lovely church and near the green expanse of the fields. The beauty of the ground cover of the bright golden Special Brew cans pick up the silvery glints of the dented Grolsch. A rather too-vivid blue jumper hangs from some bruised and pollarded sycamore, while a group of Stone’s Ginger Wine bottles nestle naturally in amongst the dock leaves, set off by a couple of used condoms and a broken syringe. It is, indeed, an inspired bit of planting, and I for one would like to congratulate the genius in the Council who considers that my overgrown Ceanothus in the front is worthy of a letter while this piece of urban beauty goes unrecognised and unrewarded.

To combat the various smells of a town street, I planted one of the most scented of all plants, the Daphne odora Aureomarginata; this glorious evergreen flowers from January to March with the most delicious, sweet-smelling pink flowers in the world. It transformed the feeling of the front garden in winter, and I actually look forward to opening the front door of a morning. Unfortunately, I opened the door one day and there was the street pong and the plant had gone. I have my suspicions about the blind woman who regularly taps the bottom of my wall with her white stick while smoking a stained and miserly roll-up stuck to her top lip.

My favourite plant in the garden at the moment is this stunning purple verbena, called Hunter’s Purple. It is gorgeous and flowers and spreads like mad. The slugs avoid it, the snails don’t touch it, the cats don’t do anything near it and just goes on and on. It looks really good near my maritime pond, which I have ‘designed’ to look like I live near the sea. The garden is miles from the sea but on the right evening, helped by the sound of the seagulls, night scent of a jasmine and a bottle of wine, I could swear I was in a caravan jam on the A12 on the way to Clacton. Ahh, bliss...

The Arsenal fans are different these days - more families, mobile phones and expensive cars. While they were in danger of dragging the area down a decade ago, it is now all reversed, and I see people rushing away keen to get away from this road in case its infectious, and locals might pee on their Mercedes. My cherry is beginning to slow down as less people stop to leak, though it did look positively giddy after my alcoholic friend was caught short and presented it with poorly-distilled moonshine from overworked and inefficient kidneys.

There is an extremely large slug taunting me at the moment, poking its head up and over a half chewed hydrangea leaf. Behind him, Max the black moggy is about to pounce on a dead twig.