I have spent most of my life cataloguing curiosities, but few subjects have led me down as many improbable paths as gnomes. Garden gnomes, mythological gnomes, gnomic sayings, and those rare gnomes who have discovered the joys of tabletop gaming. They are, in their own way, a species of delightful contradiction. They stand still for decades in a suburban garden, yet appear in stories where they scuttle through caverns with alarming enthusiasm. They claim to be private by nature, yet insist on wearing red hats that can be seen from the Moon. Typical gnomish behaviour, really.

The garden gnome, of course, is the version most people recognise. They are the silent guardians of patio life, watching as neighbours complain about parking spaces or discuss hedge boundaries. A real gnome would find all this marvellously dull, but the plaster cousins soldier on. Their presence is considered whimsical, though I have seen gnomes so sun-faded that any whimsy has long since evaporated. Still, they endure, presumably fuelled by the quiet satisfaction of being the only inhabitants of Britain who never judge anyone for putting their bins out on the wrong day.

Mythological gnomes, on the other hand, are far livelier. They are the folklore technicians of the natural world: managing underground vaults, adjusting tree roots, polishing gemstones, and occasionally advising lost travellers, usually in riddles. This fondness for riddling is what gives rise to the term “gnomic”, which has come to mean statements that sound profound while revealing absolutely nothing. A gnome will say something like, “Only the silent river knows where the moon hides her key,” and then vanish into the undergrowth, leaving you with more questions than when you began. I sometimes wish they would simply say, “There’s a shortcut to the village behind that fallen log.”

Even in the realm of fantasy gaming, gnomes have carved out their own niche. In Dungeons & Dragons, gnomes are often portrayed as tinkerers, inventors, or illusionists. This is probably the closest anyone has come to capturing their true temperament. Gnomes love puzzles that do not need solving and machines that do not need building. Invite one into your workshop and it will reorganise everything by height, colour, and level of existential importance. I once met a gnome illusionist who specialised entirely in sound effects and insisted on narrating his own combat sequences. It was, I grudgingly admit, spectacular.

This leads me neatly to Warhammer, where gnomes are conspicuously absent. One might assume the Warhammer universe has space for almost any fantasy race, but the gnome is simply too whimsical for a world where everything is on fire or about to be. Gnomes prefer to avoid situations where the primary form of diplomacy is a large axe. Still, I maintain that a regiment of garden-gnome infantry would terrify even the most hardened Chaos Warrior. Imagine a row of tiny red hats advancing silently, eyes unblinking, smiling with a serene menace that suggests they have seen time itself unravel and found it rather amusing.

Garden gnomes, however, are no strangers to accidental adventure. I have personally intervened in several incidents involving gnomes being repurposed as improvised landmarks, navigational beacons, and in one case, as the moral compass for a local Walking Club. The club in question missed a turning near Whitby and discovered that the presence of a lone garden gnome seemed to indicate the correct trail. It did not. They spent six hours lost in bracken thanks to a gnome wearing a waterproof jacket and wielding a fishing rod. The gnome was unmoved by their anger.

On the subject of misdirection, a word must be said about Doctor Who. The Doctor has never knowingly acknowledged gnomes, which is puzzling given his enthusiasm for peculiar life forms. I suspect the gnomes have developed a form of low-level perception filter that hides them from Time Lords. They are not shy, exactly, but they do enjoy being underestimated. If the TARDIS ever landed in a well-maintained British garden, the Doctor would probably remark on the hydrangeas while a regiment of gnomes quietly took notes on his footwear. If the Daleks truly wanted to conquer Earth, they would do well to begin with gnomes. Unfortunately for them, the gnomes would find the Daleks too humourless and would refuse to engage.

Now we must address the matter of tea. Anyone who spends time with gnomes learns quickly that they take tea very seriously. They regard it as civilisation’s finest invention, the one beverage capable of soothing an argument, healing a broken heart, and providing motivation for tasks previously considered impossible. A gnome will happily debate the merits of Assam versus Darjeeling for an entire afternoon. Offer them weak tea and they will look at you with such disappointed pity that you will never repeat the mistake. In their writings, gnomes insist that Britain would collapse without tea. They may be right.

You might ask how gnomes feel about Star Trek. Here we encounter a problem. Gnomes do not dislike Star Trek at all but are infuriated by the Federation’s persistent optimism. They find the clean, well-lit corridors deeply suspicious. A gnome will argue that an advanced starship should have at least three dubious cupboards, two haunted vents, and one highly questionable hatch that no one has opened since the last captain mysteriously retired. Gnomes do enjoy the concept of exploration, though they prefer it without the expectation of filling in weekly mission logs. They also become unsettled at the sight of a replicator, believing that any machine capable of producing a cup of tea on demand is surely hiding sinister intentions.

Finally, I must say a word about living with gnomes. They do not demand much, only that you provide them with occasional shelter, a steady supply of tea, and puzzles they can solve out loud while you try to concentrate on something else. They prefer gardens but are adaptable. A bookshelf will do. A plant pot. A cupboard that contains neither danger nor responsibility. And in return, they offer companionship, mild chaos, and the peculiar comfort of a creature that believes life should never be fully sensible.

As The Curator, I have met many beings who claim to understand the nature of the universe. Gnomes never claim such things. They simply enjoy the universe as they find it, even when it makes little sense. Perhaps we could all learn something from that. Though if a gnome ever offers you tea brewed from “experimental leaves”, decline politely. The results are unpredictable and, in one memorable case, temporarily luminous.

Gnomes are contradictory, exasperating, and faintly magical, though they would insist that magic is unnecessary. A little curiosity, a little mischief, and a very good cup of tea are enough to keep any gnome content. And perhaps, if we are brave enough to be a little more gnomic ourselves, they might share a riddle or two. Not that it will help. It never does.