The other day I went out the back door and ventured further than the bins.

I'd not done this since the last sunny day in October and I'd almost forgotten what the rest of our garden looked like.

There was a shaggy lawn, some scrubby shrubs, some scrappy trees and several patches of bare soil where I'd hoped, by now, to see some little green shoots.

The blasted local cats had once again ruined my hopes of seeing a spring flower display.

I figured it was time for action. I waded through the long grass down to the shed at the bottom of the garden, unlocked the door and hunted around for my secateurs, a trowel and my gardening gloves.

The implements were a bit rusty but serviceable. My gloves, however, had spawned wildlife of their own and had become home to a family of fearsome bugs. So I did as my ancestors had done and tackled the task of tidying up with my bare hands.

I manicured the shrubs, I trimmed the trees and I thought about sticking more bulbs in the bare patches but then I lost heart and came in for a cup of tea.

When it comes to gardening, I am still something of a novice. I can identify a few common plants (roses, daffodils, daisies), and I've got an idea about some of the other species in our garden - although I doubt I could remember their names. But I'm not all that successful when it comes to caring for them.

I read the magazines and consult the encyclopedias but the results of my efforts depend more on luck than expertise.

Last year, I grew petunias from seedlings and very proudly planted them out in tubs and hanging baskets when the weather warmed up. But I then spent the rest of the summer waging war against the slugs and snails that still succeeded in devouring my little beauties.

This week I was excited to see that a shrub I bought last year, the name of which now escapes me (personal memo: do not throw away the tags) is burgeoning with big red flower buds. Perhaps I have done something right. Who knows?

It's not that I am not interested in gardening. I am, very. But I never seem to have the time to do a job properly, not the patience to see it through to the end.

In those garden makeovers on the telly they rarely remind you that your new landscape won't stay looking like that by itself. You have to do a fair amount of work to keep it as colourful as the Land of Oz.

I'm also a great fan of Alan Titchmarsh and I love watching his current TV series, How To Be A Gardener, especially when I've got a packet of chocolate digestives to hand.

He inspires me to do all sorts of adventurous planting schemes in my garden - at least until the credits begin to roll.

During last Thursday's programme I was all for turning our modest plot into a symphony of cottage garden flowers.

Titch showed how he had used delphiniums and buddleia and a dozen other Latin names to create a big blousy display of blooms. But he did it all within half an hour, with some help from very clever computer graphics.

Done this way, gardening is bound to look exciting, dynamic and rewarding.

There's a reality gap, plugged in my world by slugs and snails and cat poo.