"The worms are dead," I told my husband a week ago.

"What do you mean? How can you kill worms?"

"I don't know but they have expired. They are ex-worms. It's actually kind of funny...."

"Not for the worms."

 

White-hot shame burns my face. My eco-cred is in shreds. As expected, I cannot even keep one of the planet's lowliest life forms alive. Discouragement and disillusion loom. If it's this difficult, how can I – or anyone – persuade others to take up worming?

 

All I can say is, it's a good thing we live in central London with no garden. What if I'd been tempted to buy some hens and become a home-poultry enthusiast? (Yes, they exist – they even have their own magazine!) Lucky for me, the RSPCA can't be bothered with invertebrates.

 

In retrospect, I can see I fell into the pushy-parent trap. When the worms first arrived, I admit I hovered, fussing over their food and watching them obsessively. I criticised their efforts and tried to mould them into my ideal. I never let them find their own way, never asked what they wanted. Instead it was all me-me-me. I wanted the best worm colony in town, one to make other greenies go green with envy. When the pressure got too much, perhaps they went on hunger strike – or even succumbed to self-harm. 

 

After seeing the error of my ways, I had left them to it for a few weeks – perhaps, I see now, for too long. I read online that if they don't like the conditions, they'll make a bid for freedom and turn up on the underside of the lid, but that never happened. Maybe, like unfortunate steerage passengers on the Titanic, they just never had time to escape.

 

I explained the problem to our friend Philip, the closest our corner of south London has to a worm expert. Though the flies have settled down and the smell is now 'natural' instead of pungent, the bottom layer is simply slime.

 

"Slime is good," says Philip.

"But I can't see any live worms, only a worm carcass."

"Ohhhh." Silence while he takes this in. "Maybe slime isn't so good."

 

The wormery came with a tap and promised 'worm juice', which houseplants apparently adore. I fear my worm juice will be literally that, juice made from the bodies of mistreated worms. The bottom layer is definitely too wet. I suspect the rain got in. Maybe the lid is defective and I should get a replacement from the council  – or order a fancy version (pink?) off the web.

 

Yesterday my husband was itching to clear out the wormery, despite my protests that it could still function as a compost heap.

"They're still alive!" he called out with glee after spotting a few live ones deep in the slime.

 

I still suspect there are fewer than when we started, but at least they're not all pushing up the daisies. I propose a toast – worm juice anyone?