As a lover of all things bright and beautiful I don't wish to speak ill of any flower or bloom, but I have to admit I can't stand gladioli.

They're so vulgar, particularly the salmon pink variety, the ones that Dame Edna Everage favours in her flamboyant corsage.

Imagine my surprise then (actually it was a nasty shock) when a box containing 40 gladioli bulbs arrived in the post last week.

I most certainly hadn't sent for them but the package was addressed to me.

Perhaps, I thought, The Mother had ordered them as a sort of late birthday or early Christmas gift.

She quickly pooh-poohed that idea.

"Gladioli?" she said and winced as if I'd uttered an unspeakably rude word. "They're hideous things.

"I remember my uncle Ernest used to grow them on his allotment and had to give them to his neighbours -- my aunt Betty wouldn't have them in the house.

"They were terribly fashionable in the Thirties, but not with our family," she added sniffily.

Uncle Ernest, I should add, was a relative by marriage, so not a true member of our little clan.

So there we were with 40 gladioli bulbs and instructions to plant them now in time for summer blooming - and in a garden already chocka with Lord knows what The Mother has bought from the local garden centre recently.

The Mother was totally opposed to the idea of planting them anywhere in the vicinity of our house anyway: "If I liked gladioli there wouldn't be much room for them, and as I don't there certainly isn't," she said firmly.

I felt a bit sorry for the gladioli, even though they had turned up uninvited, like gatecrashers at some posh garden party.

Fortunately both of us have lots of friends who are enthusiastic gardeners.

Unfortunately, because they are such enthusiasts, all recoiled with horror when I suggested they might like a box of gladioli bulbs gratis.

"We don't really like that sort of flower," said one disapprovingly, another said gladioli looked artificial, while a third burst out laughing and asked if I was joking.

"Perhaps we could donate them," The Mother suggested.

"Donate them to whom and to what?" I asked.

I even considered putting a small ad in The Argus.

"Good Home Wanted For Delightful Family Of Exotic Blooms. Fully House Trained. All Offers Considered."

But it didn't come to that. The problem solved itself at the weekend when we had a call from The Mother's sister in Yorkshire.

"I'm phoning to check that you got the package," she said.

Package? Ah, that package!

Yes, I told her, we had indeed received the package.

"I wanted it to be a surprise," she said.

I told her it was certainly that.

"Well I saw this offer in a magazine," she said. "Send them a cheque and they'd send you a selection of old fashioned garden favourites ready for planting.

"I remembered your mother always had strong feelings about gladioli, so there you are!"

There we are indeed. The Mother's sister is due for a visit in a couple of months' time and guess what she'll be expecting to see flourishing among the hostas and the Busy Lizzies?

"It could be worse," I told The (mortified) Mother. "At least we don't have to plant them in the front garden."