I HEARD the first one about ten days ago in Janet's garden across the road. Early Saturday morning, I heard another one, this time coming from Lindsey's next door.

On Sunday morning, I spotted one two doors up and by mid-afternoon its distinctive sound had apparently enticed half the neighbourhood outside.

Ah, the first lawn mower of summer! Like the first cuckoo of spring (what happened to him, by the way?) it heralds the beginning of a new season, a season of sweltering days and stuffy nights, melting ice-cream and malevolent wasps, smoky barbecues and sunburnt beer bellies. And, if you're like us, a lawn knee-deep in dandelions.

Summer, you might have guessed, isn't my favourite time of the year. Still, one has to make an effort.

Shamed by the pristine patches of green all around us - one chap was hand-trimming his borders with scissors - I spoke to the Lawn Mower-in-Chief.

"I'll do it tomorrow," he said. I muttered something about pigs and the possibility of them flying, at which point the Keystone Cops whizzed past the house on a tricycle, hotly pursued by Elvis. Which (thank you, Karma) was close enough.

The daughter and I went outside to chat to Yvonne, our next-door-but-one neighbour, who was weeding her front bed in disposable gloves to protect her manicure. Yvonne had enlisted Tanya, her son's girlfriend, to help, and my daughter immediately joined in too.

Next door to them, pensioner Don was clipping his bushes, while two of his friends hoed and dug. Faced with such industry, I did the only thing I could. I made tea.

Having poured everyone a brew, we sat on Yvonne's doorstep saluting passengers on the York Tour buses with our mugs. (Front lawns tend to encourage this kind of behaviour: last year we had a garden party - hats compulsory - during Ascot week to greet the Royal carriages, which rolled up Bishopthorpe Road every day from Imphal Barracks. No royals were actually in them but the footmen were cheered like pop stars.) By now our tea-break gathering had been joined by Janet and grandson Zack, who hung upside down from the railings, and Yvonne's Yorkie, Jake, who was trying to snaffle the Bourbons. Warmed by this sense of community, I suggested we start up the Bishopthorpe Road Gardening Club. Yvonne looked at our straggling roses and untouched lawn and almost choked on her tea.

It's not just being out in the front garden that invites conversations. The back can get pretty lively, too - and I'm not just talking about shouted exchanges over our washing lines. Half an hour later, I was contemplatively feeding the compost bin with vegetable peelings and twists of torn-up pizza box (please note, since this is Compost Awareness Week, that I'm on my third bin now; the first lot has already been dug into the flower beds), when I noticed a young man skulking in next door's garden.

For a second I thought he might be a houseguest, but his clothing and furtive behaviour made it unlikely. We stared at each other. "I'm in trouble," he said. He gave me a conspiratorial smile, as if he expected my immediate sympathy and understanding.

"You're in my neighbour's garden," I said.

"Shush," he whispered, ducking down. In the distance, I could hear shouting. I decided I didn't want to be co-opted into his game of hide-and-seek. I told him to get out. He told me, rather impolitely and in words I can't repeat here, to go away. I told him I'd call the police. He made for the back wall as I made for the phone.

That wasn't the only strange encounter I had. On Bank Holiday Monday, as I was piggybacking the daughter up to our front door (bucking and pretending to be a naughty pony, as you do), our game was interrupted by an intense woman with a ringing voice, who appeared to be addressing me about a dead blackbird.

Now this ex-blackbird, which she had discovered on Easter Sunday, had nothing to do with me but she caught me off my guard. I listened politely until she segued seamlessly into how Our Lord had been Falsely Accused, at which point I cantered into the house and shut the door. Much as I enjoy community spirit, there are times when you can have too much of it.

I've nothing against blackbirds, either, but had she said it was a woodlark, I might have been more tolerant. At least woodlarks, along with nightjars and Dartford warblers, have got political clout: the building of 20,000 new homes in the southeast of England has just been halted to protect them. (Now there's hope for our great crested newts, Newton and Ridley - hello to Mr Titley - in Osbaldwick.) The birds have the European Union wildlife protection law on their side, which has given me an idea for our front lawn. I am reclassifying it as an SSSSI (Site of Serial Speculation and Social Intrigue) because its wilderness state keeps our neighbours guessing about the appearance of an equally rare visitor to these parts: the rust-spotted Flymo.