Charlie Dimmock was bewildered. Her first day on the job and already she was in trouble.

"You've ruined my buzz track," grumbled the sound man, and off he stomped. It's tough at the top.

"How was I supposed to know what a buzz track was?" she complains now. "They don't sit you down and tell you these things."

Television is a strange and wondrous beast when you've never been on it before. They don't print handbooks for presenters; you have to pick things up as you go along.

A buzz track, she now knows, is a recording of nothing, save the tweeting of birds and perhaps a distant tractor. It's used to paper over the cracks when the pictures are edited later. Presenters are not, repeat not, allowed to talk when the buzz track is being recorded. Oops.

"To be honest, I didn't realise what was involved in being on telly," says Charlie. "I'm just a gardener, for goodness sake.

"Even today I'm not very good at talking to the camera."

Miss Dimmock, the great bra-less wonder of the TV gardening fraternity, had indeed been a humble outdoor labourer - she lived above the shop at a garden centre in Romsey, Hampshire - when along came a TV producer seeking interesting-looking 'experts' to appear in an outdoor makeover programme.

She agreed to make the programme, but she didn't bargain for the effect her dress sense would have upon the viewing masses.

"I've always dressed like this and no-one ever said anything to me before," she insists, feigning indignation. "It's practical when you're building gardens."

Besides, she says, pulling on a top and a pair of jeans is easier than trying to look smart.

"I struggle with 'smart casual'," she says. "I'm the sort of person who puts on a suit and still looks scruffy."

Posh frocks, however, she can manage. And her new-found celebrity has afforded her more opportunity than ever to put them on.

"I get invited to some of the glamorous previews in the West End," she says. "Sometimes I can hardly believe I'm there."

She turns up with John, her long-time boyfriend, when his wholesaling business commitments permit. It doesn't matter, she says, that she is now the rich and famous one in the relationship.

"What does matter is that I never recognise anyone at these events. I'm hopelessly out of date at celebrity-spotting."

The reason, it transpires, is that despite having appeared on almost every TV show in the listings, Miss Dimmock does not own a television.

"Being on screen myself is a good reason not to get one," she says. "It's never very flattering, is it?

"I did have one once. A friend left one with us that was black and white and didn't work properly. It took half an hour just to warm up. Eventually it died, and there was no way I was going to buy another TV licence."

As a result, she admits, she is now tempted to tell celebrities who cross her path: "Sorry - I didn't recognise you in colour."

She does not consider herself a celebrity, though. Oh, no. Never mind that she has PR people to tell other people how tight her schedule is. And never mind that she's been on the cover of the Radio Times twice.

"I'm not a pin-up," she declares forcefully. "I'm not. Radio Times doesn't mean anything. I was the only person available that week, that's all.

"I mean, it's nice to think that I'm liked by the TV fraternity - but I'm sure it'll go up and down like all these things do. Wonderful one minute, terrible the next."

As the new year gets into its stride, though, there is no sign that things are turning terrible just yet. Charlie is filming another series of Ground Force, the programme that made her famous in the first place, and she'll make more episodes of her own show, Charlie's Garden Army. She'll also launch a book (a chore, she says) called Enjoy Your Garden.

Her current endeavour, however, finds her on alien territory. She has joined forces with fellow TV gardeners Peter Seabrook and Diarmuid Gavin to host a series of live roadshows across the country. They'll be at Bradford's St George's Hall next Friday.

There are, she says, two problems with this arrangement. The first is the difficulty of building a water feature on an arid stage ("you can't bang things into the ground"); the second is that she is absolutely terrified of facing an audience.

"Ooh. Not my idea of fun. Not at all. They've told me I won't be able to see beyond the first two rows because the lights are so bright, so I'm hoping that'll help.

"And Diarmuid will support me. He used to be a lecturer so he's used to facing people."

The BBC, whose commercial division has staged the shows, is clearly banking on Charlie to generate some box office. But once again, she demurs.

"Peter pulls the crowds, not me," she insists. "He's the one who really knows what he's talking about. And the girls like Diarmuid. I'm just there to do my water feature. They're my speciality, you know."

Her appeal, she thinks, is down to people's fascination with gardening itself. It brings out all sorts of passions, she says. It's as simple as that.

In which case, perhaps she can explain why Messrs Seabrook and Gavin are not on the cover of Radio Times as often as she.

"Er, they mustn't have been available that week."

David Behrens

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.