In the red corner, we have the “Gardeners’ World” approach: a serene, linen-clad Monty Don whispering sweet nothings to a germinating seed. In the blue corner, there’s the reality of me, armed with rusty pruners and the spatial awareness of a panicked rhino, facing the Purple Loosestrife.

I’ve left it late. Terribly late. Usually, this 5ft behemoth should have been cut back months ago, but time slipped away. Now, the new shoots are emerging at the base like delicate green soldiers marching up. This requires “extra care,” which is horticultural speak for “don’t be an idiot and lob off the future.” It’s like trying to perform keyhole surgery on a patient while wearing oven mitts. One wrong snip and I’ve ruined July.

And you really don’t want to ruin July, because this plant is a powerhouse. From July onwards, it transforms from its current twiggy mess into a towering purple skyscraper. It’s not just a plant; it’s a high-octane nectar station. It is an absolute magnet for bees, who descend upon it with the frantic energy of shoppers at a clearance sale. Then you have the Large and Small White butterflies, fluttery little things that treat the Loosestrife like a five-star hotel.

But the real star? Last year, for the first time, we had a Hummingbird Hawk-moth. Now, that is a special piece of nature’s engineering. It doesn’t just fly; it hovers with the precision of a Harrier Jump Jet, its wings a blur of aerodynamic perfection as it sips nectar. It’s the closest the insect world gets to refuelling an aeroplane in mid-air. So, as I crouch by the pond, sweating over these tiny new shoots, I’m reminded that if I mess this up, the “moths” won’t show. Monty would probably prune away with a smile; I’m just using hope and a prayer.