A swamp creature guarding a peat bog

A mildly embarrassing incident caused me to examine my gardening wardrobe choices and ask myself an important question recently: at what point does “practical gardening attire” become “woman living ferally among the hydrangeas”?

The incident began innocently enough. I’d sold one of The Daughter’s old guitar amps on Trade Me and the buyer arranged to collect it on a Friday afternoon. No problem...I’m a corporate boffin but I was working from home. Corporate office types hear “working from home” and picture tidy knitwear, perhaps a crisp collared shirt and a coffee artfully positioned beside a laptop. Corporate working-from-home people hear “working from home” and picture leggings and a sweatshirt. Corporate people who’re also gardeners hear “working from home” and think: “Excellent. I can wear yesterday’s gardening clothes….the mud smears have dried out”.

The distinction is important.

Corporate attire says: “I’m a serious professional.” Working-from-home attire says: “I value comfort and work-life balance.” Gardening attire says: “I’ve recently fought a possum over ownership of a peach tree.”

My outfit that day consisted of blue tracksuit pants decorated with mud, paint and what I can only assume was the fossilised remains of last season’s potting mix. There were stains of varying colours and origins…some were identifiable, and some had become part of the garment’s identity. There were holes in strategic locations, which I prefer to think of not as damage but as passive cooling technology. The matching blue shirt created the overall impression that I was wearing an expensive designer loungewear set if that designer specialised in post-apocalyptic survival wear. Completing the ensemble were my slippers….nice slippers though...actually the most stylish part of my attire at that moment in time.

The doorbell rang and I opened the door. Standing there was a woman who looked exactly as people are apparently supposed to look when interacting with society...stylish coat, lovely hair, proper shoes. She smelled faintly of perfume and competence, meanwhile, I looked like I smelled faintly of sheep. And it wasn’t until I saw her face that the thought suddenly arrived in my brain: Oh God. This is how strangers see me. Not “woman interrupted while gardening” or “keen gardener caught off guard.” No...as far as she knew I was simply a person who answered the door dressed like an exhausted scarecrow.

I’m not one of those glamorous gardeners you see in magazines. You know the type...flowing linen trousers, soft floral shirt, beautiful apron, with freshly washed hands delicately holding a wicker basket of dahlias with a tasteful scarf tied around the hair…possibly French. Their gardens look like paintings, and their secateurs have probably never touched anything diseased. I, on the other hand, look like someone who has been banned from several garden centres.

The Husband and The Teenagers have, on multiple occasions, refused to be seen in public with me unless I changed clothes first. Apparently there are limits. I once attempted to pop into town “just quickly” wearing my gardening outfit and was informed by The Family that I looked like a homeless person who might be mistakenly identified as such and whisked away by the authorities and offered soup.

The Husband has also developed the disturbing habit of quietly throwing away my gardening clothes without my knowledge. I’ll suddenly realise I haven’t seen my favourite gardening shirt for several weeks. “Have you seen my blue shirt?” I ask. “No idea,” he replies, with the expression of a man carrying secrets to the grave. Apparently, he considers himself less a husband and more an intervention programme.

But here’s what I don’t understand. How do people garden in pretty clothes? How? Within eleven minutes of entering the garden I have mud on my knees, compost on my shoulder and a mysterious green smear across my forehead that no one can explain. Pretty clothes would not survive me.

Photo: Not me.

There is, therefore, a strict treaty in our household…the pretty clothes never enter the garden, and the gardening clothes never leave the property. This arrangement has served us well for many years.

Until the amp collection.

The lovely woman may have wondered why I wasn’t particularly chatty, why I didn’t ask where they’d travelled from, whether they’d had a nice drive, or comment on the weather. The truth is I was operating under emergency containment procedures. Every second that front door remained open increased the chances of my appearance being documented somewhere, somehow, on local Facebook community pages and I wanted the exchange completed before anyone could call the council welfare office.

After they left, however, I found comfort in a single thought…“I’ll never see them again”. There’s enormous freedom in knowing that someone has witnessed you at your absolute lowest point and then vanished from your life forever…unless, of course, they decide to buy something else from me on Trade Me, in which case I may have to move house.

So yes, I remain here in my comfortable gardening attire, complete with ventilation holes and unidentified stains. Just perhaps ring before you come over. It gives me enough time to evolve from “swamp creature guarding a peat bog” to “woman who occasionally interacts with civilisation.”

Photo: Sort of me… 😂 More accurately, an AI-enhanced version of me who looks like she’s off to the Met Gala with a garden theme. I do not look like this in real life (more wrinkles), but I wouldn’t say no to the dress. 🌸

Did you know?

Dragonflies are the fighter pilots of the garden. While the rest of us are applauding ladybirds for politely nibbling the odd aphid, dragonflies are out there intercepting prey with a success rate of up to 95%, making them one of the most efficient hunters on the planet. Mosquitoes, midges and other flying insects barely have time to update their next of kin before becoming lunch. They can fly forwards, backwards, sideways, hover like a helicopter and even snatch insects out of the air mid-flight. If dragonflies were Labrador-sized, we'd all be living indoors and drawing the curtains. Fortunately, they're content with terrorising mosquitoes instead, making them one of the few serial killers you're genuinely delighted to find patrolling the garden.

What’s new on Behind the Garden Gate this week?

• 🍅Garden to Table: this week I’m giving an update on why I’m ignoring decades of tomato growing advice, all based on the experiment I ran last season.

• 🌿Nitty Gritty: and this week I write all about why I think I’d make a TERRIBLE landscape designer. Honestly, I think I’d be really quite bad at it.