The value of vintage

NOW that the grass has turned brown and the flowers are wilting, I have finally got around to thinking about ‘gardens’ as a topic for this column. Doubtless like most of you, I love looking out on manicured lawns and beautiful flower beds but – probably unlike most of you – I have zero interest in gardening. Not for me that zen state of mind that so many chums tell me they enter as they pootle up and down on their sit-on mowers, safely removed from all those lists of things their nearest and dearest have lined up for them when they return to the house. Time better spent writing, says I, or, far better still, by the river, irritating fish.

“The little Fergie 35 is still ‘out there’ and part of me is wondering whether to make a cheeky offer…”

When I first teamed up with my own green-fingered, long-haired Monty Don and, early days, tried to impress her by asking, I found myself invited on to TV for a well-paid hour as a ‘garden expert’ and – this is what the army teaches us – not only winged it so effectively that I was invited back the following Sunday, but was then offered a permanent weekly slot. Monta Don was not impressed and, knowing I would soon be unmasked, I declined. Anyway, the studio was in Manchester and we lived in West Sussex. But who knows? Had I kept the façade going I might now be reading you the . Or not…