FORGIVE me if there are more than the usual number of typographical errors in this week’s column, but it’s hard to hit the keys correctly with hands that are shredded with cuts, and fingers that have been whacked once too often with a claw hammer.

Yes, I have been busy in the garden again, trying to apply wire netting to about eight feet of the Hextol Towers fence.

You may recall that a few short weeks ago, I removed about 30 yards of wire netting from the same fence, in order to make it easier to paint. In doing so, I was roundly encarmined in sheets of blood, as the razor sharp bits of wire whipped into my tender flesh like a shoal of maddened piranha patrolling the upper reaches of the Amazon.

The wire had been up to prevent a visiting King Charles Cavalier spaniel from escaping, but that dog is no more, and we deemed the wire redundant.

However, we failed to take into account the anti-social nature of the resident dog, a German Shepherd now well into her dotage. She’s just about totally deaf, doesn’t see too well, and is greyer than a winter’s day on top of Muckle Cheviot.

Despite her infirmities, she still takes her self imposed duties as a guard dog very seriously, and while she can’t hear the chimes of the doorbell which used to send her into a frenzy anymore, she does get the occasional glimpse of passers by, if she happens to be looking in their direction.

She’s usually OK with people, but is not keen on other dogs coming too close to her domain.

Sadly, the removal of the wire netting meant that with some difficulty, she was able to squeeze her head through the fence rails and cause consternation to dog walkers

It was therefore decreed that the wire would have to be replaced.

The original wire was on the outside of the fence, but Mrs Hextol decreed that for aesthetic reasons, the replacement would have to go on the inside on the short section not covered by the Hextol Towers hedge.

I only needed about three yards of wire for the job, but the emporium I visited only sold it in 10 metres lengths.

When I got it home.I discovered it was about 10 inches taller than the fence, so I was faced with the options of burying the bottom bit, or cutting off the top bit.

I made a half-hearted attempt at digging a trench for the surplus, but came across such a close knit network of interlocking tree roots , huge stones and mysterious piping that I opted to snip off the top instead.

I unrolled about three yards of wire, which promptly sprang back to its original configuration on a dozen occasions before I managed to cut it off the parent roll with the bluntest pliers in Bellingham.

It still refused to be tamed, and there was another lengthy fight before I managed to chop off the excess inches at the top, by which time my gloves were squelching from the bodily fluids coursing down my arms.

I somehow managed to manhandle those three yards of wriggling wire roughly into place, which involved pushing from the top, and then going back into the garden, and crawling under the trees to pull it down from the bottom.

Trying to wield a hammer while lying on pointy gravel, with a bramble in one nostril and vicious twigs whipping my hearing aids out and firing them the length of the garden was not a process I was too keen on.

Putting in staples is hard enough when you have room to work in, but doing it lying down with only six inches’ head room, and just three inches in which to swing the hammer is nigh on impossible.

I hit my fingers far more frequently than the little metal hoops, but somehow, I succeeded in cajoling the recalcitrant metal into an approximately suitable position _ and then gave my ring finger the hardest wallop yet with my hammer.

My squeals and curses brought out Mrs Hextol, bearing a cup of coffee and a slice of cake. We were going to have it inside, but one look at my bleeding arms, scratched face and pine needle impregnated clothing made the meal alfresco.

“Have you nearly finished?” she asked brightly. “You have been working on that little bit of fence for six and a half hours.”

Wordlessly, I ate my cake and drank my coffee, and announced I was going in for a bath, and would finish the fencing another day …

She shouted: “Don’t go bleeding on my clean floor!”