It's a fantastic time for gardening, January. Now you might think this is a bit of an odd thing to say, what with the weather being cold and wet and there not being much action on the vegetable patch apart from a few brave leeks manfully holding their own against the depredations of winter, and half a dozen cabbages which look moth-eaten but will probably taste wonderful. But much of the joy of gardening is about anticipation, and if January is good for anything it is for looking forward to the rest of the gardening year.

There are the seed catalogues, for instance: I read them the way some men read motoring magazines. All those varieties, all that promise. Shall I get the lettuce Ubriacona Frastagliata (it means Drunken Woman, apparently) or the Cos Freckles? Or shall I go crazy and just get both? Decisions, decisions.

But it is choosing my potatoes for the year that gives me the most pleasure. I can get quite excited about potatoes (especially Pink Fir Apples - here is the remains of last year's crop, still going strong in February). I know they don't look very enthralling or distinguished - rather brown and muddy in their natural state - and their reputation is that of one of the food world's supporting players, a stodgy filler to go alongside the more exciting main attraction. But believe me, once you get into them there is a whole world of potato-related fun out there. Which varieties to grow, how to cook them, the rival merits of the Arran Victory and the Red Duke of York - there is an awful lot more to potatoes than just boiled, roast or mashed.

The other weekend I went to the London Potato Fair, an annual event at a south London school where you can go and choose from more than 100 varieties of seed potato. The room was packed with potato lovers, wonderful eccentric types like the elderly woman I met who was scurrying round the room with a determined air as she tried to track down her favourite spud.

I came away with some Anya, Kestrel, Red Duke of York, Belle de Fontenay, King Edward - oh yes, and something called Salad Blue, which isn't a salad potato at all, although it is blue. My eight-year-old son Orlando chose that one. For any potato lovers out there, we will be supplying tasting notes in about six months' time.