"He is sort of tall and dark," Lucy told me, from the other end of the phone.

"But it's not so much what he looks like. There is just something overwhelming about his presence - and he knows a lot about plants."

I pointed out to her that David Bellamy knows a lot about plants but did not usually cause women to swoon and rush to phone their friends, which is what Lucy had done when Zed (or Zog or something), the garden designer, had put in an appearance in hers.

Was, coincidentally, just putting finishing touches to interview with celebrity garden designer when Lucy called.

"Are you busy?" she said when I answered the phone in the most brisk businesslike voice I could muster so as to show chatty callers (like Lucy) that I meant business and hadn't the time to spend hours gossiping when there were important finishing touches to be put to garden designer interviews.

"I'm just checking the ungrammatical grammar of an Irish garden designer for a piece which has to be finished in the next five minutes," I told her.

In other words, yes, I was busy, working, which is something Lucy doesn't have much time for, working or my working that is.

There is not much time for her working because Richard the stockbroker keeps her busy ironing his shirts and polishing his cufflinks, with time off for school committees and trips to the gym.

She doesn't have much time for my working because it means I am not available to gossip at length in her time off.

So she has developed a way of ignoring what I say and ploughing on with whatever she wants to say anyway. Which today was: "What a coincidence. I've a garden designer here right now."

"And is he outstanded by your own efforts at totally revamping your spacious plot?" I asked, using the phrase "outstanded by" which I'd spend the earlier part of the morning explaining to the sub-editors on Sunday paper was what the Irishman really said and not just a typing error.

"Outstanded?" she queried. "Well, I don't know. I haven't actually said much to him, which is why I'm calling you."

"Why?" I wondered out loud, forgetting myself and that I still only had five minutes to deal with the outstanded Irish gardener of my own.

By uttering that single word "why" I lost those valuable five minutes and instead listened while Lucy confessed that the garden designer she had out the back was so outstandingly good looking that she was at a loss for words, flushed with something and couldn't think of anything to do other than retreat and phone someone to confess. That someone happened to be me.

"What does he look like?" I asked, wondering if maybe he could come and do something creative with our 6ft of grass and she began explaining, unconvincingly, how it was not so much his looks but his knowledge of plants which was making her behave like a teenage girl who had suddenly come face to face with Justin Timberlake.

Our conversation was interrupted by Zed/Zog's appearance in Lucy's kitchen.

He apparently wanted to take her into the garden to discuss his plans.

Whether, because she was in a hurry to join him or because she was flustered, I couldn't be sure, but Lucy forgot to hang up so I could hear snippets of the conversation she was having with Zed/Zog.

"You could do with a bit more bedding," Zog was telling her, to which she replied: "Mmm ... "