I was sat in my garden this morning, on my rather splendid new deck chair, eating pain au choc, reading the paper and drinking a coffee, in a very middle class moment.

I was infused with smells and sounds; lots of bird song in our back gardens, and the scent of early summer flowers. I became absorbed in the stories I was reading whilst feeling all these sensory inputs. It's something I've always wanted - a garden to tend and a shed. To be in England in the summer time!

I was so involved in the moment, I just couldn't concentrate on whatever crumb I had in my beard about whoever. I seem to have let go of holding on, and it was, well, nice.

My neighbour is a landscape gardener. Bit rough around the edges, but a softy inside. He has a troubled past, like me, but also a wife, a sweet wee child, and they have another on the way.

Coincidentally, we both like scented flowers. Perhaps it's something that we men from violent, troubled pasts turned to to self-sooth?

I've lived here a year now, and have put some fair effort into the garden. Not manic, not industrious, sometimes sporadic, but most often paced and measured. I have sort of plans, but I start with one thing, and an hour later, have done several. I build up a pace, I take a break, I wonder, I muse, I pick and improve something, then I tidy up.

But I have put that effort in, and whilst it's easy to be a better, more conscientious gardener than most tenants (the two houses to the left are rental, the one to the right is owned by the landscape gardener), I do get compliments from my gardener neighbour and his wife, which I appreciate. Regardless of that, I am pleased with the results myself.

As I sat there today, musing the news and reaction to a new, elite college being planned for London to rival Oxbridge, and enjoying a summer's day, I saw my garden as a metaphor for me, my life.

I like metaphors. I am very spatially aware. I see patterns and shapes in life. Show me how to do something and I'll learn quickly. Tell me, and I'll take a lot longer to learn.

But, anyway, metaphors, my garden and my life. In a year, I see a lot of improvement in the garden, and I feel it inside. Over winter I did hard pruning and moved a lot of debris. Early spring I turned the main lawn area. Late spring I seeded it. Today I finished planting out the summer border plants (it took half an hour) and removed the penultimate dead perennial. I have exceeded my expectations in the garden. The hedgerow is lush, healthy, thick and verdant. As is the lawn. The border, almost complete and looking like it will produce a late summer burst of scents and colour as the tobacco, sweetpeas, stocks and gladioli hopefully reach their peak.

I sat there, and started to muse the work to be done on the first piece of lawn. Worn out, hard packed earth, abused and neglected. It needs good solid, hands on TLC. Turning and reseeding is my thoughts. I shall consult the local expert on timing.

And the last third of the garden - a feral sort of area, quite charming and naive to begin with, but as you get towards the back, this is where years of lazy tenants and downright rude neighbours have thrown their garden waste. It's going to be a delicate process, preserving the nice parts, the natural, shady glade, whilst unearthing and removing the thoughtlessness of past & present (I admit, I have added to the waste there) gardeners. I may not have put (most of) that stuff there, but I am prepared to remove it. Carefully, considerately, with pleasure.

Is my garden a like for like metaphor for my life, my mind, body and soul? Hmm, I don't care to go into minutiae. I know it's looking a lot better than it has for years, and I know it's a lot more enjoyable than it was a year ago, and I know I am going to keep on tending to it, so in that sense, it is a metaphor, or perhaps even a spatial representation of how I am.

Time for a nap.