Dining Out

It's two weeks since the Executive Wormery arrived. The worms have finally given in to their Fate and are no longer trying to escape. Because Andy is convinced there are actually no worms in the Executive Wormery, I had a bit of a poke around yesterday. And there ARE worms in there! Long ones, short ones and ones as big as SNAKES!! Most impressive, I thought. Even Mrs Pumphrey would have trouble getting one of those down her throat in a single slurp. (I have to mention at this point that the hens have laid an egg each for the last 9 DAYS - that's a very impressive 3 dozen eggs in a week and two days! Top marks girls and no, you can't have a holiday in Brighton as a prize).

So today is the day the worms can start on their diet of 'proper food.'
'Thank heavens for that,' says Tiger. 'I've had about all I can take of coir and shredded newspaper.'
'I know,' says Fred, who is already sitting at the dining table, bib tucked in and knife and fork at the ready. 'There's only so much fibre a worm can cope with. I wonder what our first proper meal will be.'
'Well, the Lady of Much Malarkey Manor is very into seasonal eating,' says Tiger. Tiger has gone one step further than Fred and has hired a dinner jacket and violinist for this special occasion.
'So what's in season at the mo,' says Fred, hoping it isn't anything too fibrous or newspaper-like.
'Asparagus!' says Tiger. 'And rhubarb. And spring greens and watercress.'
'Oh,' says Fred, who was really keen for it to be chips, or corned beef hash. With maybe a jam roly-poly for pudding.
'Asparagus is lovely,' says Tiger. 'A real delicacy.'
'Doesn't it make your wee smell funny?' says Fred.
Tiger laughs. 'I hardly think so,' he says. 'Asparagus is posh food. Posh food wouldn't cause anything like that to happen.
'My aunt Penelope had some beetroot once and it turned her wee pink,' says Fred. 'Perhaps we could send out for a takeaway.'
'Certainly not!' says Tiger. 'We are here to do a job and a job we shall do. It'll be healthy kitchen scraps for us. None of that takeaway rubbish.'
'I quite like a bit of rhubarb,' says Fred. 'Especially in a crumble. And I know a good recipe for a rhubarb tray bake. You can have it either as a hot pudding or cold in your lunchbox.'
'I don't have a lunchbox,' says Tiger.
'The Lord of Much Malarkey Manor has many lunchboxes,' says Fred. 'I expect he could lend you one.
Tiger ponders his need for a lunchbox, carefully.
'Do you think he's got one shaped like a TARDIS?' he says.
'Probably,' says Fred.

Meanwhile, I am in the kitchen preparing a worm banquet. Not too much though. You have to start slowly with a small handful every other day. Is my hand a small hand, I think. I take size medium in rubber gloves. I look at the list of 'Things to Feed Your Worms.' It includes fruit, veg, coffee, teabags, bread, rice, pasta, flowers, cereals, crushed egg shells, cake, cardboard, paper and pet/human hair. I can provide ALL of these things. Except the cake. I ate the last scone in the tin for elevenses and to be honest, the worms are NEVER going to get a look-in as far as cake is concerned at Much Malarkey Manor. So I gather together a tea-bag, a bit of banana skin, an apple core, a few bread crumbs, a bit of crushed egg shell, a clump of Phoebe fur and a daffodil and give it all a good chop 'n' mix.

'Why my fur?' says Phoebe, rubbing the base of her tail.
'Because you can't run as fast as Tybalt,' I say.

I decide to leave paper and cardboard out of my concoction. I reckon they'll be fed up with paper-based products.

I present the food to the worms.
'What's this?' says Tiger.
'It's an omelette surprise,' I say.
'And the surprise is...?' asks Fred.
'That it's nothing like an omelette,' I say.
'Any asparagus?' asks Tiger, hopefully.
'You must be joking,' I say. 'It's a delicacy. I'm not going to be feeding asparagus to worms. It's bad enough that the hens get grapes.' I disappear to make myself some lunch.

'I hope her wee turns green,' says Fred.
'Me too,' says Tiger.