S o Prince Charles wasn't so dotty after all when he talked to his plants. Hillo, little flower, he would say, do you mind most tirribly if I pick you and take you into the hice?

But a scientific experiment has proved him right. Tomatoes which were read to every day grew taller than those which grew in silence, and in the end the plants seemed to prefer women's voices to men.

All of which means a busy schedule out on the patio at Reid Mansions, for I have 20 tomato plants each needing regular conversation. Could I gather the pots together and read to them in a group, like at a book club, or does every plant have to have its own personal story?

And how do you address a tomato: do you say hello, you're a lovely girl/boy , how are you today?

What shall I read today? Would you like How Green Was My Valley, or Anne of Green Gables, Thomas the Tank Engine or War and Peace?

And then there is the embarrassment factor: Prince Charles is tucked away in Highgrove when the public can't hear his sweet nothings, but my plants are on a patio that borders on the pavement, and passers-by might find it strange or even alarming to hear a grown woman reading Das Kapital to a plant.

So I am keeping my voice down: I am a plant whisperer. "Once upon a time," I say in a low voice, "there was a poor woman who lived with her son Jack, and one day he come home with a seed...."

I must say that so far, the results are remarkable. I have never had such a healthy set of plants, and my rendering of The Day of the Triffids seems to terrify the greenfly and the slugs. I may have stumbled on a new career path.