We wasted no time in heaping the ‘compost’ – replete with wigglies – all over our veggie patches.  Louis, meanwhile, has earned his first £2 from the sale of produce to his aunt, who grudgingly paid up for a sparse bag of spinach, lettuce, parsley and three carrots which would struggle to earn the label bite-size.  Sadly, the hoped-for radishes and beetroots had resolutely failed to produce anything underground, despite extravagant foliage above ground.

Buoyed by our success, we’ve now ordered installed not one, but two new composters.  Louis is excitedly monitoring the monstrously big pumpkin plant, digging round the garlic when I’m not watching, and impatiently poking the potato plants.   Roll on August!

It’s been exactly two years since I first installed my Dalek-like composter discreetly round the side of the house. Since then I have zealously fed it every rancid bit of fruit and veg peel, egg shell, tea bags etc. I save these up on my kitchen window in a ‘compost caddy’ which, during the summer months, gives birth to a plague-like swarms of tiny flies which greet horrified friends.

On discovering banana skills or potato peel thrown thoughtlessly in our normal bin, I’ve held family inquests to discover the culprit. I’ve regularly stirred the evil-smelling mixture in the garden; got the boys to collect worms to eat through it; nurtured it with composter accelator; and kept it warm by topping it with an avocado-coloured bath mat my Mum gave me (sorry Mum).

And still, a whole 24 months on, the bloody thing is stubbornly refusing to produce a single drop of anything resembling compost. 7-year-old Louis, who now considers himself something of an expert in farming, is urging me to transfer it to a sunny spot to generate more heat – perhaps next to the patio where we can view it at close quarters while enjoying a summer barbecue. However, the prospect of lifting the thing up and discovering the results of two years’ detritus is less than appealing.

No volunteers so far.