I had two strawberries on Sunday evening. Two peachy red ‘uns inflating like hairy little balloons from the stalk. By the time Monday’s saunter to the plot arrived, they had been chomped recklessly by ‘a thing’.

I know not what.

They had been gnawed in the way a spiteful toddler would stick a grubby finger slap bang into the middle of a trifle. Ruining the treat for everyone else.

If you’re going to take a bite, just take the lot. Ta very much nature. I had been looking forward to those.

There were just enough strawberries fighting for life to fill a pricey Wimbledon punnet. The plants had been nurtured through the dying chill of the final winter weeks. They were looking good and I had given them protection from fruit-loving foragers.

But allotment obstacles which Wipe Out producers would deem too tricky had been nonchalantly brushed aside by evil wildlife.

And, thus, is the tale of my allotment year to date.

Toil followed by tremors of optimism as early shoots peek from the soil. Only for the glee to be chased away by the thundering reality of growing vegetables in the city, in a British summer (sic).

I had persuaded the more adventurous Barbara to stick to ‘banker’ crops — the hardy types which can keep giving despite torrential downpours — the ones able to stomach sudden Sahara conditions.

The other half would attempt pineapple crops if it was left up to her. And who can criticise the ambition?

Me? I like fat juicy courgettes to pluck from the plot. It allows me to walk into work beaming with pride to distribute to semi-grateful colleagues. Big veg, big result, and, vitally, little effort.

However, mid-June and I find my ‘can’t-screw-up-spinach’ has bolted and my ‘runner beans a-five-year-old-could-grow’ have blackfly.

What have I done over the long winter months to deserve this? Maybe I shouldn’t have lied and told the Avon lady — just trying to make a living — that Barbara has such bad allergies she never uses make-up?

Maybe I shouldn’t ask the bus driver on the Number Five for a ticket to Manzil Way and get off at the bingo hall instead?

What goes around comes around.

I shall be spending this weekend in an effort to save my crops and on my hands and knees begging for a reduction in erratic weather.

Wish me luck.