My mouth is already watering in anticipation at the delicious prospect of carrots and new potatoes pulled fresh from their earthy bed, peas eaten straight from the pod and tomatoes plucked from the vine and still warm with sunshine.

Luckily, in my village, there was no waiting list and our enterprising horticultural society had helpfully divided up a full-sized patch into smaller strips to allow us 'allotment virgins' to ease ourselves in gently.

As if the fresh air and satisfaction in growing something from scratch were not enough, there is also the joy of making new friends with other plot holders who have shared spare seed potatoes, loaned a rotavator and given advice on identifying weeds and spacing runner beans.

Best of all, when I'm on the allotment, the phone doesn't ring, there's no washing machine on the go or squabbling children – aside from the odd chat with a fellow gardener, it's just me and the great outdoors.

If allotments were free on the NHS, there'd be no need for anti-depressants or referrals to counsellors.

Although it could open up a whole new area of angst as I'm already worrying over why my carrots haven't popped up through the soil yet as they have done on neighbouring plots, why others' bean cane wigwams look so much more attractive than mine, and why, oh why, didn't I plant some beetroot?