My shallots have just been ripped out of the ground by a frenzied squirrel.

My father's garden is bigger, lasts longer and satisfies more people than mine. When he opens his garden to the public, people swoon with pleasure. They often stay for over an hour and positively glow when it's all over. Recently, a rather attractive woman walked around my garden in about 30 seconds and grinned. She grinned, didn't swoon, and said: "This is just how I thought it would look." It's after events like this that the slugs and snails in the garden really suffer. And if they have all hidden, it's time to dig a hole and fill it again.

The history of gardens is littered with issues about size and power. Versailles was a statement of power over nature. My alternative history of gardens, Size isn't everything, was remaindered, thankfully, on the desperately lonely road from thought to action.

I used to feel like Cool Hand Luke in my Dad's garden. Inside me was a Russian Volcano desperately wanting to hide.

Luckily, my anger found The Damned's 'Brand New Rose' and I fell head over heels in love with punk, especially The Clash. I used to pogo the night away and specialised in swearing at ugly, tough, strong people and getting beaten to a pulp. Sometimes I got beaten up by someone handsome, tough and strong, which was worse. The most humiliating was getting beaten to a pulp when they were ugly, cowardly and weak.

The more unpleasant the atmosphere, the more repelled and drawn I became. It was only after a couple of broken milk bottles were waved into my face that I realised how much I was looking forward to the future, when milk would come in soggy waxed cardboard. Revenge fantasies have this skinhead slashing at me with a couple of flaccid cartons while I take out a giant machete and prune his head off while singing 'Greensleeves'.

All that rebellion comes back to me now as I plant a radical lilac night-scented stock, in front of a belligerent burgundy leafed Heuchera 'Chocolate ruffles' with a spiky silver-leafed artichoke in the background. To hell with tradition. Anarchy in the UK is alive and kicking.

Also by Adam Caplin:
Death and the land mollusc
Fertilising the inner garden