SOMEONE once said that weeds are plants which have mastered every skill except growing in rows and that’s certainly the case in our garden where the dreaded bind weed takes grip every year in the brief time my back is turned.

When we shut the gate on the garden as we left Abergavenny for our short break in France everything looked perfect. The grass was green, the borders tidy and the pond sparkling and when we opened it ten days later I half expected to see Sleeping Beauty asleep on the kitchen floor after we’d battled our way through the brambles to get to the house.

With the garden now almost back under control last weekend was the time to tackle the pond and armed with our new pond vacuum, clean and clear and hopefully give the fish a fighting chance of seeing some daylight.

“Shall I get the pump out so we can give it a good clean?” asked the housemate as I assembled the vacuum.

“That would be good,” I replied. “But be careful because the pipe is caught up in some of the plants,” I added as she gave an extra strong tug.

Worried by the unusual silence coming from the side of the pond I looked up from my project to see the housemate gazing dolefully at the end of a pipe, which just moments before had been attached to a pump.

“I don’t think that’s supposed to happen,” she said.

“You don’t say,” I replied.

“How are you going to get the pump out now?” she asked optimistically.

“What do you mean, ‘how am I going to get the pump out’’? ” I echoed. “Last time I looked you’re the one holding the pipe!”

“I’ll have to get in,” announced the person who hasn’t got her bathing costume wet in a half a decade.

“You know you’ll never get in there. We’ll find a way of getting it out,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

After an hour of jabbing around with every garden implement available much to the apparent amusement of the fish who had lined up to watch from a safe distance, I admitted defeat and prepared to take the plunge.

“Is it cold?” asked the housemate from the safety of the shore.

“No. I’m having my first ever asthma attack,” I snapped back gasping for breath through a mix of the cold and fear that dozens of leeches were attaching themselves to my bare arms and legs.

“It’s a garden pond not the Amazon,” said the housemate as I peered into the water. “We’ve got koi not piranhas!”

With the pump finally retrieved and the plants thinned out, because as the housemate pointed out, I was already wet, she offered her hand to help me out of the water.

“I think we’ll get you some waders for next time. It’ll make it much easier,” she called as I squelched my way down the garden for a hot shower.

Later as I flicked through Facebook I was reminded that it was eight years ago to the day that I got dramatically trapped in a pair of wellies.

“If you think I’m getting myself stuck in a pair of full length waders you’ve got another think coming,” I warned the housemate as she opened her pond supplies catalogue.