AN Englishman's home may be his castle but his lawn is his love affair.

He weeds it, he feeds it, he waters it, he trims it, he strims it, he rolls it, he edges it, he aerates it, he cuts it, he mows it, he lays it, he dreams of it. He forsakes all other plants for it.

Well I do, anyway.

The weekend has not begun unless the strimmer has been fired up in a cloud of petrol smoke, and the lawnmower has been pushed up and down along mathematically precise lines. Even if the grass doesn't need cutting, the weekend must begin by giving it a trim.

It's probably psychosexual. I get a real kick when other men say: "Boy, your lawn's nice." Or even: "Look at the grass on that."

When I'm out, I secretly eye up other men's lawns. I laugh in superiority at those who have unsightly infestations of daisies or moss; I am lost in envy at the sight of a ride-on mower - how I yearn for one of those, even if I don't have a lawn big enough to use it.

But, not any more. Last week, I fell out of love with my lawn. For the first time in living memory, the weekend did not begin with a quick cut.

I left it. I spurned it.

And now it shows. It's gone leggy and straggly. It looks a mess. It has gone to seed.

It is not really its fault, but a squirrel has been cavorting all over it. In fact, not just one but a whole scurry of squirrels digging deep swirly holes, plucking out little pockets of grass and tossing them to one side to dry up and die in the sun.

My lawn is like a battlefield - pock-marked. The patch I re-laid earlier this summer because it wasn't quite level enough is now covered with hillocks.

I didn't let the lawn go without a fight. I collected all the small dropped apples from under the tree and piled them by the garden gate. First thing in the morning, I'd creep in and launch an apple attack on the dirty diggers.

But squirrels are nifty, nimble blighters. They took off along the fence and avoided my fusillade, and then crept back to their excavating as soon as I'd gone to work.

Indeed, on the fourth day, one of them cheekily picked up an apple I'd thrown at him. He sat up on his tail, had a quick nibble and then threw himself into the trees, laughing at me in a way that only a squirrel can.

So I have to accept that the once beautifully manicured face of my lawn has acne. I cannot bring myself to look at it. Never again will I be able to start my weekend with a quick mow.

I have lost the love of my life.

SOMETIMES, ever so rarely, you have to feel sorry for politicians. For example, Wednesday's £7bn road-building announcement.

In reporting it, the Newcastle Journal was spitting fury, shouting that "just £170m" was to be spent on the North's roads, which showed how the Government had betrayed the region. The Yorkshire Post was also spitting fury, saying that the "gigantic" £1.2bn to be spent on the North's roads showed how the Government's public transport policy had failed the region.

It is clearly impossible to please all the papers all the time.