Dan Morris: Gardeners who would be vogue strike a daft pose

Opening the curtains and being revitalised with the promise of good weather finally on the way, last Saturday I put my boots on and stomped down to my local plant nursery with my brat. There are only too many people who will tell you I’ve never exactly been a keen gardener, yet with spring looking like it might finally spring, I was juiced up to get my outside space into something resembling a pretty state. Little ‘un was very excited: our local garden centre is also home to a wildlife menagerie featuring a Burmese python – her favourite animal in the world. So, both full of beans, we threw our ‘rags’ on and made the first plant-purchase pilgrimage of the year.

On one note, we had clearly made a monstrous faux pas…

The line-up of motors in the car park should have been a giveaway – Beemer this, Bugatti that, and at least three Astons. Yet, mission in mind and eyes on the prize, I paid this little heed. And then we got inside, and what unfolded before my eyes was nothing less than bizarre in extremis.

I proudly come from a very simple school where a trip to the garden centre is a matter of efficiency and practicality – not necessarily a pleasure cruise.

Yet, it seems that said school is running very short on committed alumni, for the general population of my local garden centre were not at all of the same mind. The first family I spotted (fawning Instagrammably over a Peppa Pig £2-a-go car ride in the main entrance) were nothing less than a Windsor tribute act – kids perfectly coordinated in matching gingham, and parents whose sunglasses alone could possibly have settled the Greek national debt.

The second lot were much more reminiscent of the Beckhams – team tattoos that put the Sistine Chapel to shame, coupled with expert Saville Row tailoring and enough eau du parfum to make pepper spray an entirely unnecessary relic of a bygone age.

And, it didn’t stop there…

Have you ever seen a woman attempt to play crazy golf in a pair of Louboutin heels? Nor had I, and it is a sight that will stay with me long after the inevitable cataracts have set in.

I quickly concluded that there was one word for this place today: bonkers. Yet, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the unexplainable explosion of fashionistas that had chosen to darken the door of this wholesome rural establishment on a random March weekend. While I used to take pride in cutting a reasonable sartorial rug, since my daughter decided that my Prada lace-ups were just the perfect bit of kit for ‘sensory play’, I’ve entrenched myself in the world of more modest threads.

As such, flat cap on (but, in context of my whole ensemble, not so much resembling Tommy Shelby as Zak Dingle), I felt a little underdressed, and (for the briefest of moments) got a little misty-eyed over the days when every outing was a chance to ‘peacock’.

But then, I promptly woke up.

As my daughter delightedly dug her index finger into her nostril and gluttonously devoured the fruits of her excavation, I took a look at the wide Cheshire-cat grin across her face in comparison to the eerily perfected ‘Gram-worthy pouts of others around, and smiled back more broadly than I have in months.

She was one of the only non-ridiculous people in the parish, and easily the happiest.

I glanced down at my own attire – egg-stained T-shirt from breakfast and shorts that had seen far too many summers – and my grin grew even wider. The rest of the world had gone insane – we were the ones who had it right. Our day continued with a dip into the garden centre’s cafe, where rather than opting for what was clearly the uniform oat-milk latte, we each imbibed a Cornetto and a glass of Robinson’s squash.

Sat among us were parades of parents editing phone photos while their kids looked downright bored, and more than a couple of blokes conscious of their fake tan lines against the sleeves of their Baby Gap T-shirts.

I blew a raspberry in my daughter’s face, and promptly picked my own nose for good measure.

Her giggle entirely eclipsed the telltale chorus of Facebook Likes emitting from the smartphones of almost everyone else seated, and with every fibre of my being I hope it always will.

Our plant-buying mission was an utter failure - we’d just had too much other fun. Yet, as I walked back to the car with sproglet on my shoulders, muddy knees grazing my cheeks, I thought about the other punters and smiled one last time.

Life’s too short, and I’d never looked better.