Gardening was certainly not my idea of perfect potpourri-but that was way back in 2007; okay I agree, 2007 was just two years ago, but now that gardening is akin to a physical and palpable version of Ferrero Rocher, I feel as though 2007 was ages ago. Or perhaps I've garden-ly matured a lot since then.

An impossible tale of how disgust slumps into love is a succinct description of how my close relationship with gardening began. In early 2007, Dad and I moved to a lovely two-storey villa in Northern Qatar. The villa epitomised grandeur-white picket fence, enormous lawn, and a lovely backyard (with no swimming pool!).

Surprisingly, however, when we moved in, the lawn seemed in a state of utter depression and enormous sorrow. The backyard was in mourning as well, and I'm yet to figure out why.

"We can get this place manicured," comforted Dad when we were moving in, lest I joined the mourning.

"We need to!" I gasped. "The last thing I need is my friends to assume my Dad is a skint blotto or a junkie."

"Who lives in a big fancy villa?" Dad retorted with a chuckle.

Because Mum is no longer around, and I'm the only responsible female in the two-member family, Dad respects me as the figurative 'Lady of the House', who is allowed to fire commands at house keepers. I'm one of those who like spic-and-span surroundings; no concessions granted to the lawn and backyard.

Translation: My home has to be ideal and picturesque, and Dad trembles at my authority over home, which, by the way, is evident from the way he hastened to get a professional to manicure our lawn and backyard. Hallelujah, he had that one sought out, because...Well because walking up and down dirty gardens every time I enter and exit the house is beyond my endurance.

The house warming party a week after moving in was rather splendid. "Ooohhh," every one cooed, "What lovely lawn!"

"Such pretty roses!"

"Look at the carnations!"

I felt as though I'd done the gardening with my very own hands. Truly, the lawn was, and still is, postcard-perfect. Dad had indeed hired an excellent gardener from a nursery nearby-the work was so professional, and don't even ask how expensive it was. "It cost me two arms, two legs, and a dozen prosthetics," replied Dad when I'd asked him.

The house warming party was a barbecue in the backyard, or rather back-garden, as someone had coined and soon it floated around as a catch word. The backyard is extensive with date palms along the fence and Bougainvilleas here and

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