Claire Dunn: We're well on the way to our Good Life

This will amuse anyone who knows me. I'm no domestic goddess. I'm no gardener. And I'm definitely not a farmer. Phew! That country air.

But I loved Barbara's spirit and her determination.

And I totally dig the self sufficiency thing. If only I wasn't a slave to Tesco (other supermarkets are available).

I've always liked the idea of dishing up a fabulous feast to the family, made with goodies from the garden all grown from scratch. No added extras.

I think it must be in the blood.

My family's love of the outdoors has passed through the generations.

My grandfather thrived outside. He had his own smallholding. He was out in all weathers tending his flock, well pigs, and the most fabulous vegetable patch.

There was everything. 'Fancy a cauli?', he'd ask. Yes, was always the reply. Tomatoes, cabbages, carrots, green beans. You name it, he grew just about everything.

We were the lucky recipients of all his home-grown produce. Vegetables, eggs, apples from the trees and, dare I say, even the cockerel for the Christmas table.

He had the Midas touch when it came to gardening.

And now my eldest son shows all the same signs of a love of the great outdoors.

He loves animals, farm animals in particular. When he was a toddler, his bedroom resembled a pigsty – just joking. But there were tractors on his duvet cover, and cows, sheep and pigs on the lightshade. He even had his own farm – a wooden one – in the corner of his room. It was his pride and joy and is still on display today. His love of animals – wooden or otherwise – shows no sign of subsiding.

He loves a trip to the local farm where he can pull on his wellies and feed the animals (and, of course, pretend that he's the farmer).

There's no talk in our house of rabbits, guinea pigs or cats and dogs. All he wants is chickens. And he won't be satisfied with one, he wants a flock of them. He even knows the variety he wants.

I'm not sure what the neighbours would say. But I'm pretty sure an early morning cock-a-doodle-do wouldn't go down too well. I apologise to them in advance should my son get his wish.

This week, we stepped up our bid for The Good Life.

No, not chickens. Instead we planted raspberries. Not necessarily in a vegetable patch or even on an allotment. But in a growbag by the back door. Small steps, I'll have you know.

And now you can guarantee that Farmer Eldest Child will be out there in the next weeks with a ruler measuring his plant to make sure that it is growing more quickly that his little brother's.

And, of course, when it fruits – please please let it fruit – you can rest assured that both my little farmers will be counting meticulously who has the most raspberries in a gardening showdown. Gulp.

And then of course the fruit will be handed over to me – Mummy Barbara Good – to turn into some award-winning dish for tea. Yikes.

As I have said I'm no domestic goddess.

Hmm. I wonder what raspberry dish Tesco has on special offer this week?