You'll be pleased to know I have already made myself look like a prize moron, but there is nothing like a bit of self-depreciation to get the veg sprouting. They like a laugh.

Knowledgeable allotment holder A: “Morning, getting going with the planting already?”

Me: “Yep.”

Knowledgeable allotment holder A: “Those Anyas?”

Me: “No, just potatoes.”

Knowledgeable allotment holder A: “They are potatoes.”

Me: “Oh.”

I scurried off to my grubby patch to spread my newly-arrived horse crap. It is amazing what horses eat, don’t you think? One chunk clearly contained hundreds and thousands and – what looked like a chewed pencil.

I broke my back shifting those bags of steaming poo up the near-Matterhorn incline of Links Allotments and it seemed to cover the space of a withered postage stamp. Disappointing.

Perhaps not as disappointing as the puny dribble of liquid compost my worms have managed to produce after chomping their way through three (yes, three) months worth of food waste.

Pathetic, perhaps they don’t appreciate a smorgasbord of used PG Tips bags, cold baked beans and mouldy frankfurters. Only I could get choosey worms.

I ploughed on anyway, but it started to rain. I’m not senior enough yet to get a shed and my flat is about ten yards from the front gate. So, I bottled it.