Last week I wrote about raising kids who give a damn.

So, naturally, this week we armed ourselves with biodegradable weapons of mass pollination, and went to war with the beige.

Our mission was simple: breathe colour into the forgotten corners of our village.

Friday afternoon. One bucket. 27 pre-made seed bombs. A pink tandem. A trowel. And questionable intentions…

We pedalled off into the wilds of suburbia with our lumpy, beautiful cannonballs of colour rattling in a bucket that hung off the handlebars.

Our first target: the village skatepark - a cracked concrete wasteland that looks like a Mad-Max rave got cancelled halfway through. My daughter crouched beneath the railing, dug a small hole, and launched two seed bombs with the precision of a woodland sniper. I kept watch. She covered them with soil and a splash of water, then pulled out her fluffy pink notebook and drew a map marking the exact coordinates of her botanical crime.

We re-mounted our steed and pedalled West. Next stop: the graveyard.

We found a sad patch of dirt next to a bench.  Two more bombs. Map updated.

Then over to the community centre where we snuck a couple beneath the fence. We hijacked the forgotten planter box on the green behind the bus stop, and then worked our magic on a particularly miserable alleyway behind the estate that looks allergic to joy. 

By the time we reached the churchyard, we were deep into guerrilla-gardening mode, giggling our heads off. She spotted a headstone for a policeman named Samuel Beard, upon which it tells the surprisingly descriptive account of how he was beaten to death by three drunkards in 1861.

“He needs cheering up,” she said.

In went 3 bombs.

We wrapped up our glorious eco-rebellion at the only roundabout in the village, dropping the final payload before collapsing on a bench for hot chocolate, biscuits and fist pumps.

The afternoon’s eco-adventure wasn’t about wildflowers at all.

It was about proving that care’s not something you preach, it’s something you lob into the dirt and water with a plastic bottle.

Maybe in six months our village will bloom like a packet of Skittles exploded. Maybe it won’t. But either way, we’ll know we tried.

So if your weekend or looking beige, grab your kid and vandalise your neighbourhood with kindness. 

Go make a beautiful mess and paint your postcode in pollen.

The bees will thank you later.