Wormitz

Bring on the cow, that's what I say! Now I've spent a weekend as an official wormkeeper, I can safely say that management of any other form of livestock will hold no fear for me. Blimey, you wouldn't think a bunch of worms would be so tricksy to handle, would you? Aside from the fact they are a bit on the slippy side, they can't half shift when they want to i.e when they are trying to escape an alien environment.

The worms land via ParcelForce Friday lunchtime.
'What's this then?' asks the ParcelForce man as he waits for me to sign for my consignment on one of those stupid electronic signing consul thingies using an electronic pencil that ruins your handwriting.
'It's a wormery,' I say.
'A what?' he says
'A wormery.'
ParcelForce man looks at me as though I'm speaking Russian.
'For composting,' I say.
ParcelForce man smiles and seems oddly relieved
'I didn't think you seemed the type to go fishing,' he says. Good, I think, because I am not sure a bristly beard and yellow sou'wester would suit me.

Inside the kitchen I open my parcel. Tybalt helps.
'What's this then?' he says.
'Worms,' I say. 'For composting.'
'I see,' says Tybalt. By now he is already inside the executive wormery having a look around. 'There appears to be a tap,' he says. 'And a black sponge and a white bag.'
'The tap is for the sump to drain off liquid plant food,' I say. 'And the black sponge is coir for the worms to sleep on. I have to put it in a bucket with 3 litres of warm water and wait a couple of hours for it to expand so I can crumble it up. And the white bag is full of worms so DO NOT OPEN IT!'
'Seems like a lot of aggro for a few worms,' says Tybalt.
'You're not jealous are you?' I ask.
'Moi? Jealous of a worm? I think not,' says Tybalt, and he stalks off to do a spot of chicken watching.

Phoebe has been watching proceedings from a chair.
'What's the point of worms then?' she asks. She hasn't helped to undo the parcel because that would involve getting up and moving about.
'They will produce vermicompost,' I say. 'Which is excellent for the garden. Much better than cat poo,' I add, in a dark reference to the neighbourhood cats who are thrilled I am digging up the front garden for the bees because it makes a rather convenient toilet facility for them.

Three hours later I have crumbled the coir, inserted the sump tap, trimmed the mesh, soaked and shredded some newspaper and retrieved some compost from the garden to add to the coir (apparently this will help the worms to settle into their new home. Something to do with bacteria which sounds too gross for words).

'What would help me settle in would be a 42" flatscreen telly, Twiglets and a six pack of lager,' says Fred.
'A surround sound music system would be nice,' says Tiger. 'And one of those cocktail cabinets that looks like a globe.'
'We've got what appears to be dirt and torn up soggy newspaper,' says Fred.
'I think,' sighs Tiger,' this is the shape of things to come.'

At bed-time, Andy and I wrestle the wormery into binbags. This is a safety precaution in case any of the worms try to escape overnight. Apparently, you can leave a light on, too, as worms move away from light so are less inclined to leave their home.
'It's like the first night the hens arrived isn't it?' I say. 'When we had to put a torch inside the eglu to encourage Mrs Miggins and Mrs Bennett to go inside. We were up until one in the morning waiting for them to catch on to the idea, weren't we?'
'I do,' says Andy. 'But this seems to work on the opposite principle.' He's such a scientist, my Andy.
'I can't really see how they can get out anyway,' I say. The wormery seems very wormtight and I have installed the fine green mesh as instructed.
'And worms have very tiny brains, if brains at all,' says Andy.
'Did you hear that, Tiger?' says Fred. 'They think we're thick.'
'I'm already fashioning a rope ladder from the long fibres of this coir bedding,' says Tiger. 'We'll show them!'

On removing the wormery from the bin bags on Saturday morning, I discover one escapee. I give the escapee a stern talking to.
'Stay put,' I say.
'Make me,' says worm, so I bury him under a pile of damp newspaper.
And then I discover another escapee on the floor of the conservatory. So then I have to empty the conservatory in case there has been a mass exodus of worms. There hasn't, thank heavens.

And this morning there was, again, a single worm outside the wormery but inside the bin bags. I reckon it's the same worm.
'How can you tell?' asks Andy, as I return the now persistent escapee to barracks.
'He's got that look on his face,' I say.
'What look?'
'The look of a renegade,' I say. 'We'll have to watch this one. He's going to be trouble.'

From England to France...

Yesterday, I wrote 2 blogs, one of which was commented upon by Vera, mon amie en France. Now of the two blogs, I thought she'd be more likely to comment on the one about sitting bare bottomed on the ground in order to test soil temperature because that is the kind of thing I imagine she would rush out to try immediately - or at least send hubbie Lester out to try, if only to snap a few cheeky shots to post on her own blog.

But no, 'twas the worm one that brought forth the comment. Mostly because, as she digs her way heroically through her new small-holding at the base of the Pyrenees, she has found only two and a half worms. (What happened to the other half of the half worm? Was the half that Vera found still alive and wriggling? Is it still a functional worm??) And a lot of moles. Now, I haven't found any moles in my garden and I believe moles like worms (to eat, not to take to the cinema or anything) so I think les moles francais might need their knives and forks removing.

Often, as Vera and I travel towards various levels of self-sufficiency in our respective corners of the world, we find ourselves doing similar things at similar times. For example, we both bought willow trees on the same day a couple of weeks ago! And a few days ago, Vera wrote about her dearth of worms on the very same day that worms was my subject of choice. I have to say I felt marginally guilty about writing about worms. I'd been in the garden all day and discovered a worm planet in the compost bin. I was very excited. I thought, 'there's my blog subject for today.' So I came inside. late in the afternoon, cranked up the computer, logged on and read about Vera's digging and her discovery of a single worm and thought, 'I can't write about my mass of worms. It'll sound like I'm bragging.'

But then I thought, no, perhaps Vera will be encouraged that there are still worms on planet earth and they haven't all left for Neptune. And perhaps French worms are a bit more relaxed about making an appearance at the start of the growing season. After all, the bottom end of France has a longer growing season than the bottom end of England, so French worms have a little more time on their hands. I expect they are still sitting deep in their burrows, quaffing vin rouge and nibbling on the last Camembert of winter.

So, Vera tried to get Lester enthused about worms but he wasn't keen. But rest assured, Vera, Andy wasn't too excited, either. Last night I said 'Have you been on the Wormcity website?' and he said, 'Er...no. Not yet.' I said, 'We have to keep the wormery in a bin bag for the first three or four days because apparently the worms will try and escape their alien environment.' 'Really?' said Andy. 'But it will help if we put some of our garden soil into their wormery to help acclimatise them,' I continued doggedly. 'Hmmm?' said Andy.

At this point I gave up trying to get Andy excited about worms. So perhaps it's a man thing. I expect they spend so much time comparing worms when they are little boys that the novelty has worn off by the time they reach manhood. I, however, intend to fling myself enthusiastically into the whole wormery thing (not literally, it's only 72 litres in capacity and I think my capacity it considerably more than that) and I am looking forward to feeding my vegetables on nutrient rich compost and liquid plant food.

As I write this, I am holding a text conversation with Andy. We need some topsoil for our raised bed 'n' Plan Bee Garden and he has embarked on a spot of bartering with Gemma (a.k.a The Gemsta, Mrs Poo's Formula One Racing co-driver) because she has topsoil in her garden we can have in exchange for half a dozen eggs. I felt this was a bit mean so offered a cake into the bargain and the deal is done! Half a dozen eggs plus a chocolate chip 'n' banana cake (or carrot cake if I do those -yes I do) in exchange for several bags of topsoil!

Superstores? Who needs them?