Worms? Yes, Worms.

Mmm.  Worms.  Found myself saying something I never thought I would.  Today.  In a moment of excitement shouted out over brunch to an audience of two writers, a composer and a graphic novelist: "Oh! I forgot to say!  I have worms now!!  Do you want to see my worms?!?"  Stunned silence.  Can we blame them?  Worms?  Ewwww.

 But yes, ordered, received and assembled my first wormery last week.  You have to leave them be for 7 days with only a head of lettuce and some newspaper to allow them to acclimatise. Mine certainly did.  This morning they were hammering at the garage door demanding frothy latte.  Forced them back into their bin by poking at them with little bits of rolled up Guardian.

But apparently nothing will smell. All household waste, including last year's inexplicably pointy boots and that unfortunate over mantel ornament auntie Sheila gave me will soon be made into sweet-smelling-forest-floor compost fit to shake hands with Desmond Tutu.  It's all very exciting.  We're bonding.  I can see myself shopping for the worms soon: "No no darling, you know they prefer organic radicchio to curly kale!"

All self-respecting artists are having a worm experience now, you know.