Firstly, to say: glorious thanks go to all who so stoutly supported my last communiqué, in which I — under great emotional duress and moderate port influence — dictated the details of my moat conundrum to you esteemed chaps and chapettes. Your spirited replies were a balm to the sovereign soul.

Regrettably, some of the proposed solutions, while conceptually exquisite, were financially insurmountable. One simply cannot at present afford piranhas (the upkeep is appalling), nor trebuchets — the timber market being what it is. I briefly explored the acquisition of crocodiles via a gentleman on Gumtree operating under the moniker “DazzaReptiles69”, but the entire affair ended with me in a Morrisons car park holding a laundry basket and three feral iguanas. I shan’t recount the whole sordid tale — we must all live with our regrets.

The trench — still gloriously six feet deep and now partially flooded (thanks to God or a leaking hose, I cannot be sure) — has been deemed “a serious public risk” by the local council. This, I contest, is baseless fearmongering. If anything, it is a private risk, and I have accepted it with dignity and wellingtons.

In response to their aggressive bureaucratic posturing, I have taken up position within my gazebo embassy, which I have repurposed with bunting, a rug, and a stern-looking oil portrait of Sir Digby Farnsworth (who once duelled a bishop and won). I am not leaving until my demands are met, or until the elderflower cordial runs dry.

Mrs Bell, my insufferable neighbour and self-appointed Warden of Other People’s Gardens, has once again inserted herself into the fray. She alleges that the trench “smells like bin juice,” “attracts aggressive mallards,” and — most outrageously — that I “tried to recruit her grandson as a border sentry.” That last point is wildly inaccurate: I merely offered him a sash and a small bugle. The boy was delighted.

I remain undeterred, mud-flecked, and gloriously sovereign.

Ever in diggerity, Nigel H. Farnsworth, Esq. Supreme Chancellor of the Lawn, Keeper of the Rotary Line, Lord Regent of the Garden Room Republic “Ex terra, imperium.” (From soil, dominion.)