Another way that people inadvertently prove that they can’t come without benefit of a team of trained surgeons and a set of stripped triplets wrestling in mud is to say how sexy gardening is, of all things. Gardening, sexy! It’s like these poor, tragic, frigid swine have seen the word “dirty” written down in the context of sex, and then have become aware that there’s a lot of “dirt” in a garden, and then the unspeakable chumps have put two and two together and come up with “Derrr, if I say I like GARDENS, which have DIRT in them, then people will think I like SEX, which is DIRTY!” Well no, you sad object. (The exception to this rule would be professional gardeners, who do it for the money, and are often a bit too sexy for their own good.)

Ooo, can’t you just imagine the Prince of Wales grubbing about in the gardens at Highgrove, talking to his plants! — mind you, you’d stand marginally more chance of getting a bit of stimulating chat out of a prize chrysanth than from Camilla. Apparently, all through his marriage to the Divine One he was always getting jiggy with the old girl in the garden and leaving the valet to clean the grass stains off his trews — but this doesn’t contradict my theory that amateur-garden-people aren’t sex-people, far from it. On the contrary, Chazza obviously sought to kick-start his limp libido by doing it alfresco; think of Lady Chatterley running around the garden in the altogether like a big jessie, Mellors humouring her in the hope of getting his end away.

No, like doggers, people who have sex in the garden are rarely getting carried away by passion, but more likely attempting to add spice to a lukewarm love-thang. (General note: contrary to agony aunt opinion, it’s always a bad sign when couples start having sex anywhere but in the bedroom or on the sofa. Having it all over the show doesn’t mean you’re wild, it means you’re bored — trust me, it’s the beginning of the end. You might as well move on right now before you spoil the kitchen worktops.)

No, gardens are dirty in a bad way. Like I said; that’s why I’ve never once in ten years eaten one of the apples, pears or figs that grow in mine. Give me two layers of plastic around Nature’s bounty, on the other hand, and I’m happy; I’ll leave the grungey stuff to the birds, squirrels, cats and foxes that see fit to treat my garden like a running buffet. You see, this is what the self-sufficiency bores never deal with; if I’m gorging all the fruit in my garden, what’s going to happen to the cast and crew of The Animals of Farthing Wood who are squatting on my property? They can’t just get in a taxi and go to Tesco whenever they get peckish! Mind you, they’ll have to start standing on their own two — four, whatever — feet a bit more when I flog my house to Mr Evil Developer and push off at the end of this year, or they’re going to be living underneath a sizeable sheet of concrete.

You’ll forgive me for the somewhat jaded tone of this column when I explain that since I announced my decision to take the money and run earlier this year, I’ve been accused of all sorts by the local sticky-beaks — the lowest blow of which is that the glorious gardens attached to the properties will disappear beneath the cruel kiss of the concrete, thus robbing all the creatures therein of their chosen habitat.

Now I love animals, don’t get me wrong, but the idea of living one’s life for a random toad, fox or hedgehog — which if the chips were down wouldn’t dream of crossing the road to piss on you if you were on fire, let’s face it — seems to me a good working definition of losing the plot.

The mantra of the neighbourhood busybodies — “Save our family houses and gardens!” — evokes a real fear of the modern world, and of the presumably Gay Flats and Bestial Bedsits which threaten the stability of these sexless structures. If an Englishman’s home is his castle, all too often you get the unfortunate feeling that his garden is his padded cell, and the all-important weekend trip to the garden centre his medication. For all my alleged nastiness and rootlessness, I’d far rather go to church on Sunday than fill my spiritual sector with decking and secateurs. Sadsville!

All these people who use their gardens as a substitute for sex, drugs and religion, and seem to believe that violent anarchy will rule if a few rhododendrons bite the dust — have they never heard of parks? Lidos? Public open spaces in general? Nobody’s more of a proud Little Englander than me, but I can’t avoid the thought that other countries, with their emphasis on communal open spaces rather than private ones, have a point. Who needs a boring little bit of lawn and a swoosh of slippery decking when you’ve got Central Park or Parc Guell? Isn’t there something just a little bit weird about making “an extra room” out of a garden — surely the logic behind all that decking, all those lights, all those garden heaters? Who wants a room full of creepy-crawlies and DIRT!

When I move at the end of this year, I’ll remember certain things fondly about my garden. Lying by the swimming pool in the sunshine, drinking and laughing with my mates; looking out of the window and seeing a fox eating peanuts on the patio at six o’clock on a spring morning, less than three feet away and holding my gaze so sweetly that it made me feel like running out and killing a chicken for it.

But the foxes will move on, as they once moved here, and there will be other pools and other friends. So I won’t be able to look out the kitchen window at my garden next year — but soon after it has been razed to the ground, a nurse or a fireman who couldn’t afford to live in my neighbourhood before will be able to move into one of the new affordable flats that will make up 40 per cent of the development. On balance, I don’t believe I’m going to miss all that dirt too much. Bring on the wrecking ball!

julie.burchill@thetimes.co.uk