THE allotment blues hit me this week. Not only are my courgettes pathetic but my butternut squash plants have had their stems severed, either by a pest or by the force of recent high winds.

Husband is also finding that this growing lark is not as easy as he thought. He notices that his pickling onions are each the size of an apple and hurriedly consults a book. "Lift them when they are the size of marbles," it says. Oops. "Oh, well," I say sagely, trying to be helpful but hiding a smirk behind my hand. "We live and learn."

Growing pains aside, it has also been a week of music. It starts with six adults squeezed into a car heading to the other side of London to watch Radiohead.

It is a Tuesday night and between us we have left behind 10 children in the care of assorted grandparents, aunties and uncles. We arrive to a festival atmosphere and I can’t stop smiling. "It’s a school night," I say, again and again, feeling like a 16-year-old who knows that she should be at home and can’t believe her luck that she is with 40,000 other fans drinking beer from a plastic cup.

The concert is superb and the post-gig kebab more than lives up to expectations. We return home at 2am in time to grab a few hours sleep before getting up for the school run.

Back to reality but the music continues as we watch daughter sing a solo in the school play. Her performance brings tears to the eyes. The week ends as we re-create Glastonbury at our house, with a mass sing-a long to Neil Diamond. Our children now know all the words to ‘Sweet Caroline’.

The tent and bunting in the garden may have been over-kill, but it gave husband and his friends a place to retire to and play guitar, drink strong cider and imagine they were in a field in the middle of Somerset. Cheaper and no mud in sight – next year we are selling tickets.