Gloves off in battle of the best veges

I see almost no reason to stay in the journalism game now that I'm a market gardener.

The glacial mucous of my head cold has abated, and in its place I have contracted Garden Fever, which is only slightly more contagious than Cabin or Saturday Night Fever.

It's amazing what a difference a day makes. One minute I was lying in bed wondering what could possibly be the point in getting up, the next I was in Bunnings.

It was that hazy part of the morning where you spend a few moments filtering dreams from reality. I'd just been spanking some anonymous person on the bum for 15 minutes, with, in this order, a wooden spoon, a fish slice and then a red plastic plate (which is no doubt related to a recent article I wrote on Christchurch's bondage scene combined with my recent obsession with buying nice kitchen utensils).

Anyway, this is not the place to delve into my subconscious, let us diagnose Garden Fever.

The onset of the disease was sudden and no doubt caused by a text message from my very good friend and now very good neighbour, Hayley.

It read: "The Vege Station eagle has landed."

Which, loosely translated, meant that her husband had been to Bunnings and returned with a kitset raised vegetable garden for me. I shot out of bed, avoiding the shower and hairbrush, and popped next door looking like botanic man David Bellamy on a good day.

I had been preparing for this moment for months. And by "preparing" I mean dropping hints on Hayley's husband every week or so that he should be building me a garden.

But what good is a raised vege bed with no plants?

So Hayley and I bundled a selection of her children into the car and we went to Bunnings. Aisle 30. The Professional Gardener's aisle. Not for us these pre-grown seedlings.

I'm wondering if, as novice vege growers, we may have bitten off more than we can chew by choosing to raise our veges from seeds, but who doesn't enjoy unachievable goals?

We left Bunnings with a trolley full of dirt, seeds and pots and headed home for the Great Propagation Afternoon of 2009.

Perhaps it was the potting mix, perhaps it was the nor'wester but we were both experiencing our first gardening highs.

We went just a little bit nuts. Initially we were calm gardeners, but it quickly descended into a fight over who selected the premier plant food. She bought Thrive, I chose Dynamic Lifter. I'm thinking I might sneak to her house one evening and refill her Thrive bottle with hairspray. Let's see her cope with stiff Moneymaker tomatoes and Drumhead Racer cabbages.

Don't think of me as underhanded. She was the one who threatened to make her cat poo all over my beetroot and carrots.

I'll concede that we probably went a bit overboard when we dragged our dead grandfathers into the argument, claiming each of our forebears as better gardeners.

We're entering into a neighbourhood basil-off. Later that night, I found a website page with great advice on growing basil. I'm not going to tell her about it.

She's even trying to psych me out. Just before bedtime I got a text saying her seeds had already germinated.

Nasty lies won't win this game.

Of course, it's only just occurred to me that I have no hose or any garden implement larger than a trowel, but that won't stop me. I'll use a wooden spoon or fish slice if I have to.

I'm not planning on failing. Even if my main crops end up being slugs and snails, I'll package them up with puppy dogs' tails and grow boys.

- © Fairfax NZ News