Miss Mary Contrary lived not far from the sea but, despite salty breezes, she'd cultivated a verdant garden. Then, one morning, about to water her prize lilies, petunias, geraniums and lobelia, she found her small plot, overnight, had turned into The Sahara Desert.

'Goodness gracious!' exclaimed Postman Pam, stepping through the garden gate, her black and white dog, Scruff, following behind.

Dumbfounded, Miss Mary Contrary started to cry and Postman Pam stroked the distressed woman's shoulders that shook like a mini earthquake.

'Call the police!' Mary wailed.

'Can't love,' Postman Pam replied. 'They only come out for murder these days.'

'It is murder,' Miss Mary sobbed, adding in a screech of realisation, 'And Dunely's Best Garden is being judged next Friday!'

'There, there,' Postman Pam soothed. 'You've won it every year over the past ten years.'

Miss Mary stamped her foot. 'That's not the point.'

For a long moment, deep in thought, both stared at the devastation before them. Then Postman Pam, taking hold of Miss Mary's hand, said, 'I've an idea.'

Miss Mary, glancing down at the hand that held hers, asked in a strange, sultry voice, 'What is it?' Winking, Postman Pam, rolled up her sleeves and asked for a mug of strong tea. No milk. Two sugars.

The following Friday, three judges arrived at Miss Mary's neat home, their eyes widening with pleased astonishment. Thousand of winkle shells blinked in the sun. Pebbles of every hue curved around mounds of sand and coarse grass from where Sea Thrift, Twickle Purple, Lamb's Tongues, Sedums and Tuscan Blue flourished in their own natural surroundings.

Extremely satisfied with the ingenious display, all three judges, including the vicar, announced Miss Mary Contrary the overall winner in every category.