I'm just relaxing over a fruity Argentinian red and the latest copy of my exquisite speciality viola catalogue when there's a raucous commotion outside: Suze is crashing about at the front door, knocking into the hand-made terracotta pots.

Seems she's had a traumatic afternoon at the garden centre, and I tell her for the hundredth time, if she will go to Wesley's Garden'n'Leisure World, she's bound to have problems. Celandine Cottage Nursery always stock the most tasteful varieties and you get a good espresso: altogether a more genteel experience.

Nevertheless, she regales me with the details and I power snooze until it's over, dreaming of Monday when the manure's due. When the kids get rowdy we sit them in front of Top of the Pops and open another bottle of the red. Later on, of course, its Gardener's World, so we end up propped up on the sofa, fantasizing about the lovely Alan Titchmarsh.

I'm ashamed to admit that I haven't been able to take advantage of our lovely bulb offer, as I'm having a spot of trouble with the credit card people. But I'm dying to copy Annie, whose garden is always the picture of elegance in spring, with delicate species narcissus nodding gently. Hopefully something similar in my garden would divert the eye away from the fox poo and broken toys.

I've got a bit of cash though, so buoyed up with enthusiasm, I enter the garden centre with a light step, find some Milky Ways for the kids and prepare for an absorbing half-hour's choosing while the kids watch a mechanical Father Christmas stuff a threadbare teddy into a limp-looking sack.

I get diverted by the darling little bonsai display, and it takes a while for me to realise what the manager's shouting about. Red-faced and humiliated after a stand-up row, I pay for the blasted chocolate bars, and lug a bargain net of king-size daffs - all they had left - to the car. Make for Annie's for a stiff drink.