10: Fresh Mint (Especially On Potatoes)

My back garden is a living, breathing, growing testimony to many of my failures and regrets. I'm first to admit that I am not a gardener. Last time my lawn needed mowing it was so long that the thought of even stepping out there made me cry a little and retire to bed and hide underneath the duvet. I ended up paying my sister and brother in law a wheelbarrow full of used notes to do something with it. I think they set it ablaze.

In my back garden stand two sheds. I have no need for either. One is filled with the detritus from my pre-divorce life - old VHS tapes, video games consoles wrapped in plastic, sacks of clothes that I could probably still wear, books I bought and never read. The other shed contains a redundant lawnmower, someone's bicycle (certainly not mine), a hose when I don't even have an outside tap, and my daughter's electric Disney Princess car that I assure you I have never tried to ride down the road in the dead of night, honest.

My two favourite items are in the foreground of the garden, closest to my house and seperated from the needlessly prolific sheds by a patch of wild grass to insane for any lawnmower.

First is my Filbert Street map, purchased from an auction when we knocked down our beloved former home. I always enjoy showing this to people because they then presume that I have the cunning, guile and shame-faced cheek to be able to steal something so vast. I rarely admit that I bought it (and that my Dad owns the other one) because I think the image of me as a wee scamp taking a screwdriver to a game on my 23rd birthday and somehow evading the law makes me seem more dangerous and devil-may-care. I'm telling you now that image is a fallacy. This evening I did a show and then came home to luxuriate in having a cold and doing my finances. This life I lead is strangely non rock and roll.

Then there is my daughter's fun house. Pink and white and made of sturdy plastic, Amelia loves this little place. One of my most treasured photos of her shows her playing with her mini kitchen within the house, making me smile with her mini OCD behaviour when it comes to plastic cups and cutlery. Sadly, she has only played in the house a few times, testimony to my status as a divorced Dad. I love Amelia to bits and I try to be a great Dad - but the plastic house is just like so many of her other toys at mine - enjoyed but they haven't had the mileage from them that they should have.

Next to the plastic house is a mint plant. I've always hated mint. It has a function, it's not something to enjoy for fun. But in the last few years the very smell of mint is now associated in my mind with missed chances and regret. As well as a burning desire to destroy every trace of it from the planet. What use has mint other than to remind me of my failings?

TOOTHPASTE - When I was a child we had Punch and Judy strawberry flavour toothpaste. Why not make this for adults? Why make such a big deal about fresh orange juice in the morning, with adverts showing the beautiful people of New York enjoying a bagel and a fresh glass of OJ as the sunshine streaks in through their blinds in the half million dollar apartment... when the second you drink the damn stuff after your morning dental hygeine session you're forced to suck your own lips off to deal with sourness.

GUM - In essence having minty fresh breath after a refreshing bag of cheese and onion crisps sounds like a decent plan. Having cheese, onion and mint flavour breath is both nauseating and confusing.

MINT YOGHURT - Poppadoms are the crisps that Jesus would eat, if he was alive today. Mango Chutney and Lime Pickle are the salsa dip that Jehovah himself would have enjoyed. If there is a God (and I'm leaning towards there not being so - because he wouldn't have invented mint) I reckon he doesn't share a curry with all these other religious dudes and ask for extra mint yoghurt. Not only does it taste foul, it looks like you're annotating your starchy disc with mint choc chip ice cream.

CONSULATE CIGARETTES - Have you ever smoked these? The first fags I ever smoked, and they made me addicted to Nesquick mint choc milkshake. A rumour went round that they made lads sterile. In my school that was considered a method of contraception.

MINT SAUCE - My family eat this with everything, which makes them more insane than quirky. As you know, dear reader, I despise roast lamb. Mint and vinegar. British people are sick and wrong.

FRESH MINT APPLIED TO POTATOES - I love potatoes. Starchy little fuckers, they're brilliant. Mashed, boiled, chipped, pureed, ablaze, anything. I could eat a ton of them a day. And come the summer, we get the best ones: New potatoes. Bite sizes morsels of wonderment. Oooh! Cold ones in salads! They're amazing. I tend to keep a supply of tinned ones (in brine, of course) for the cold winter months. To eat on toast, on days where I choose to flick two fingers up to the Atkins Diet. I do not need these beautiful things being sullied by mint, horrible mint, trying to freshen my mouth before I've even finished eating.

I'm not one to throw diva strops, but the next time I'm served anything with mint on I will windmill everyone in sight, like a slightly camp whirling dervish. I'll be pushed further than Mariah Carey after she's been double booked at the Dorchester and instead of having a suite with fresh muslin on the walls, she's in a Travelodge with dirty sheets nailed to the wardrobe.

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