I believe it was a day in March this year that I realised I now have a garden. I opened the front door one morning that month and things had clearly changed. The world was suddenly greener. Things - plants, I think they are called - were growing.

This was novel. And disturbing. We moved in last September and, frankly, through autumn and winter I hadn’t given the outside space much thought. Who wants to be anywhere but indoors in January, right? But now it was suddenly clear that for the first time in 20 years I was the owner of a garden.

Two months on, I’m still not really clear what I should do with this information.

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For the previous two decades I’d lived in a flat with a shared garden, the upkeep of which, happily, I was not responsible for. People came, cut the grass and that was it. I had nothing to do with the whole process and I was perfectly content with that arrangement.

That is no longer the case. Our new(ish) home has a garden attached and it needs some upkeep. And, frankly, I’m a bit lost at the prospect.

If it was a garden with a lawn I might have some idea of how to go about it, but it’s not. There’s a lot of decking, a sculptural hedge and then a gravelly bit that’s full of plants and trees that frankly doesn’t make any sense to me. What’s it for? I haven’t a clue.

My mate Neil tells me there’s a really nice acer in there. But I wouldn’t be able to point it out in an identity parade. I am hamstrung by my ignorance, and, to be honest, my indifference. I don’t see opportunity. I see more chores. And I’m not a great one for chores.

The thing is, I quite like gardens. They seem pleasant enough places to be. Neil took me to some mad folly in Perth and Kinross the other month. What was it called? Oh yes, Fingask Castle; surrealist topiary and overgrown paths through woods. Strange day out. Quite enjoyed it.

I don’t even mind reading about them. The bits of filmmaker and artist Derek Jarman’s diaries I like most are when he’s raving about his garden in Dungeness: “Worked in the garden from sunrise. A warm, overcast day. It took the morning to complete the second circular bed in front of the house - mulched the santolinas and started on the lavenders in the back garden.”

Sounds lovely, doesn’t it? I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about though. It’s an alien language to me. Beautiful on the ear, but I’m clueless as to its meaning.

I fear my notion of gardens never really escaped childhood. Back then, the backyard - it was never anything more than that - of our council house was just a place to kick a ball about in and imagine I was scoring the winner for Spurs or Northern Ireland. (Such a rich fantasy life.) Maybe, if the weather was warm enough, I’d sit out and read my Michael Moorcock fantasy novels and work on a tan. But beyond that, it meant nada, nothing.

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The idea of a garden as a sensory idyll, as a creative platform never occurred to me. If it does now, it's as an idea for other people.

Last Sunday I went out and swept up all the dandelion spores and catkins that had fallen the previous week, grumbling under my breath about the intolerable burden of it. I’m simply not sure I’m one of life’s natural gardeners.

More than that, I fear I am to gardeners what Boris Johnson is to the concept of truth. Allergic.

The question is what am I going to do about all this? Well, maybe I could see it as an opportunity. Maybe this is my chance to, ahem, grow as a person, embrace this new canvas and learn new skills.

Yeah, maybe. Or maybe I’ll call a gardener.