THERE was definite wilting, this wasn’t looking good. I’d been waiting six months for this glorious moment and now look at it, droopy as a Basset Hound.

As I examined the stem, a bespectacled stranger approached from behind: “That’s not looking too good,” he said.

“Yeah, hope it’s not clematis wilt,” I replied, fishing for reassurance about my pride and joy climbing up the front of the house.

“Nope, it’s not wilt that, wilt’s fungal, that looks like you’ve damaged the shoots,” the friendly man said.

“I bet it’s the window cleaner,” I said, thinking how civil it was to be passing the time of day with a mature conversation about gardening.

It was then he made a swift movement to his left, revealing a briefcase, previously obscured by his leg.

“Oh God, what’s this, I knew this was all too much like life in an episode of Antiques Roadshow, all quaint and middle England,” I thought.

To my horror, he withdrew a copy of The Watchtower. If you’ve never read it, then it’s a publication very popular with Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Although, in its defence, there’s very little in the way of Kerry Katona, Jordan or Cheryl Cole crying.

“Maybe you’d be interested in having a look at this,” he said.

“Has it got anything about clematis in it?” I said, hoping to rekindle the earlier conversation in a bid to get off the topic of Jesus.

“No, but it’s got some very interesting . . .” he said humorlessly, but not as quickly as he should have done, because I got in there with the best excuse I could think of at the time.

“Sorry, I’ve already got enough hobbies, what with the clematis and everything, OK thanks bye,” I said, dashing back inside the house.

And then I realised that was the second time in a week I’d been lured from a harmless conversation into a religious discussion.