I had a letter from the Council threatening me with another, longer letter if I did not cut back the beautiful Ceanothus Repens, my striking blue creeping Californian Lilac, in the front garden. Admittedly, it was growing over the wall and there was an outside chance that a pedestrian might have been savagely whipped about the face. Aren’t I lucky the local council is so vigilant. I, for one, would like to commend the work of those fearless few, the men and women of the Islington Council overgrown plant battalion, who, with no consideration for their own safety, bravely make the streets a safer place.

Arsenal fans are often caught short and urinate on the outer corner of my front garden wall, which probably accounts for the tremendously strong growth of the unwanted cherry seedling which has popped up in the single, narrow strip, too small to be a bed and too large to be a crack. I have grown fond of this symbol of nature standing proud in an Arsenal street, and have noticed that it seems to stand that much prouder when it hears the cheer for an Arsenal goal. Unfortunately, as I am a Spurs supporter, the very energy that seems to create happiness for my cherry makes me feel physically sick.

Snails have homing instincts, so that if you chuck them over the fence, which is a filthy and unneighbourly habit, bound to end up with a litigious letter from the snail department of the Council, they find their way back. I go snail hunting, and on a particularly fruitful night can bag at least 20. It’s not the most challenging work — when you’ve spotted one, they’re relatively easy to catch.

This morning I feel slightly hungover. My whole life is reflected in the hosta that has been at war, and has lost to a cavalry charge of snails. The once proud green-and-white leaves of this fine specimen ( Hosta albopicta), which boldly contrasted with the subtle red hue of the old terracotta pot, look limp, flaccid and holed. Its slimy margins, only two weeks earlier a virginal white, are now stuck to the rim and starting to putrefy. I love gardening.

The other main pest in my garden is the cats. They look cute, but are often to be seen playing pinball with my frogs. They just hit them, look slightly perplexed, then delighted in a feline way, and then hit them again. After the game, they squat on my main bed, evacuate themselves, spray the surrounding plants, including the Hosta and the mint, and swagger back to play pinball again, and to spar with other cats. This may explain the slightly musky flavour of my home-made mint tea. I have been told of a great way to scare cats off, which is to get some tiger manure and spread it in the garden. Apparently, cats avoid areas with tigers and so are very wary of the scent of what is, let's face it, a very, very, big and scary cat. I managed to get some from the zoo, and spread it under my golden-leafed robinia, Robinia pseudacacia Frisia, which has the most wonderful golden leaves all summer and looks like a shower of joy, particularly against the silver sheen of a eucalyptus. It worked in a sort of inverse way, and my garden became one of the great cat loos in the area, the tiger manure working as a sort of aromatic signpost. Rather surprisingly, the robinia is now less healthy than the cherry, so I'm thinking of going to the zoo and getting some manure from a large gorilla to try and attract the football supporters to make the short journey from my front wall to the golden shade of a false acacia.

But all is peaceful now; I have a community garden where plants, snails, aphids, cats, frogs and toads all live in the imperfect harmony of an imperfect garden in an imperfect road. The blue flowering agapanthus were fabulous, while the white ones limped through; the geraniums looked like they were at a rave, while the raspberries have sagged and are slightly mildewed, having been listening to too much Leonard Cohen. My gardening book knows of no cure for listening to too much Leonard Cohen. As I’d waited all year for this rather unattractive plant to produce some berries, I was really annoyed when all it came out with was a grey, soggy, depressing mush. I had to go and dig a hole and then fill it up again. I then dug it out one more time, The next morning I filled it in again. It was extremely therapeutic.

Ironically, while executing the Council’s sentence on my ceanothus with a pair of shears, I was approached by a passer-by, asked whether I had the Council’s permission to cut the beautiful lilac back and told that I am to be reported for eco-brutality.

My front garden does look awful. It looked less awful I before the cut the ceanothus.

The hydrangeas were particularly good this year.