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.'