Today: The Gardening Gene Theory

Nobody has ever done any research on it that I can find but I am almost certain that there is a gardening gene. It's influence tends to emerge as people head towards middle age. Suddenly, gardening phone-in shows become mildly interesting, your windowsills begin sporting propagators and you accrue an ever increasing selection of gardening 'stuff'.

I am sure, for some, this is merely functional. People tend to get houses and gardens and therefore have to address them, and their gardens become another outlet for decorating. It's like ironing. You grow up, get a responsible job, work out the codes of dressing nicely and somehow it all creeps up on you. Putting on a suit and a crisply ironed shirt when appropriate becomes second nature and feels good, even though for most people, the ironing of said shirt and the pressing of said suit is still a chore.

But I am sure there are people who enjoy ironing for ironing's sake.

My own theory of the gardening gene germinated (sorry, I almost reisted the gardening metaphor then, but it was too easy) when one day, my friend Eleanor told me that she often fantasised giving up her inner city teaching job and working in the field of horticulture. I don't think she was even 30 at the time. But her thoughts correlated with mine, and those of several other people I know. We have all, seemingly out of nowhere, developed a fondness for plants and a wish to develop green thumbs.

I have something in common with Eleanor and all the others which I think counts towards my theory. That thing is stationery. To us, Staples is some kind of a cathedral. When Ellie and I worked together and car-shared, we regularly found ourselves stopping off in stationery shops, using our teacher status to justify huge and unnecessary amounts of spending.

We also owned up to a fondness for hardware of pretty much every kind. I believe that predisposition to liking hardware and stationery shops is an early sign of the gardening gene. Some people will pick up a paring knife, can opener and milk pan at the supermarket. Others will visit a proper, dedicated, kitchen supply shop and pore over the multitude of options: weighing shiny knives in their hands, miming the creation of a bedtime cocoa, testing the feel of the gadgets.

And those same people cannot resist a well made precision set of screwdrivers, an adjustable wrench, reels of twine and a bag of brass nails, all bought 'just in case'.

Eventually, they will develop the tell-tale signs of a particularly selfish and headstrong gardening gene.

So here I am. With my seed trays, my lovely trowel and fork, broken sticks, compost and twine. This year I am going for a sheer riot of colour. Poppies of all hues and nationalities - California, Vietnamese, Icelandic, a couple of dozen giant Sunflowers, rich blue Lobelia, African Marigolds and Love Lies Bleeding.

It's a genetic imperitive. The fact that I don't actually have a garden is a trifling inconvenience.