I last had clean finger nails when I was four years old, before I decided to dig up the bare dirt under the mango tree and serve the little boy next door a delicious bowl of soil, complete with salt and pepper. My hands have been ingrained with grime ever since, despite scrubbing. I occasionally have aphids in my hair, wombat dung on my shoes, and bits of mulching straw stuck to the back of my dress which someone usually tactfully removes when I stand up to give a speech.
My days in the garden do not end with my radiantly tripping through the house extolling the beauties of nature, bringing rose petals and heritage carrots, but collapsing dustily on the sofa muttering, "I'm bushed. It's leftovers for dinner tonight."
