Let me Count the Ways

In age, as in childhood, it seems to me, pleasures are generally of the simpler and more wholesome kind; while those of the middle years are often complicated by emotion and relationships. The pleasures of old men (and I assume old women) tend to be singular, solitary and often incomprehensible to the wider world.
And by way of example I can do no better than draw your attention to the compost heap at the bottom of my garden. More accurately I should say heaps, since I have three of them. Not that I am boasting you understand, but I must admit to a little frisson of pride to think that in one respect at least, I have more than the average man. And as you’ll appreciate, no two compost heaps are alike, so in the unlikely event that I ever get bored with one there is always another available for my delight and delectation.
So perhaps you’ll indulge me while I wax lyrical and count the ways that I do love my compost heaps.
To begin with, I belong to the post war austerity generation; a generation saddled with the conviction that to throw away food, any food, is just plain sinful. One of the consequences of this is that we baby boomers feel compelled to take those bendy carrots , wilting radishes and shrivelled turnips and make them into wholesome, nourishing soup. OK, so it gives gruel a bad name and the family refuses en-mass to go near it and it sits festering in the fridge for the next six weeks. The point is we haven’t thrown stuff away and God, do we feel virtuous.
But if you have a compost heap, and I think you’re probably ahead of me here, there is a guilt free alternative.
All that suspect vegetable matter, those baked beans lying blue and forgotten in some rarely visited corner of the fridge, not to mention the half ton of bruised windfall apples your in-laws gave you; can all be despatched with a clear conscience to the compost heap. Nothing is being thrown; it is all being recycled. You can bask in that ever so pleasant ‘holier than thou’ glow knowing that your new-found Green Credentials are shining out like a beacon in a world of waste.
Now, as far as the maintenance is concerned, there is something immensely satisfying about pulling on the boots and announcing with the air of someone about to set off for the south pole, that your ‘going to turn over the compost heap’ and ‘that you may be gone some time’.
I suppose this is as close as most of us get to being in touch with the land. Even if, like me, your efforts at horticulture leave the garden looking like the Gobi desert with an acid rain problem, you can still produce good compost. All it takes is patience and an awful lot of potato peeling.
Of course, the real pleasure of the heap is to be had in observing its slow, relentless alchemy; the living ferment which lies at its dark heart. It is the irresistible power of infinitesimal organisms toiling in immeasurable numbers; the writhing broil of happy worms and the silent creep of fungi pushing their filaments into every foetid recess.
And after all the rotting and turning over and waiting you get to the finished product which of course is not the pure crumbly tilth you were hoping for. It is full of stuff that shouldn’t be there.
Take avocado stones: in our house avocados are an occasional constituent of salads; they are not what you would call an everyday staple. Yet the heap does not lie. There can only be one explanation for the vast number of stones and that is that someone is living with a serious avocado habit and probably needs counselling as a matter of urgency.
Then there are what you might call the prodigal son moments, the unconfined joy at being reunited with those potato peelers, knives and spoons which have gradually disappeared over the previous year. And of course, there are always the completely inexplicable items like next doors house keys or a tin of sardines or a used condom.
But the thing that really gets me is the corks. Why does my wife insist on putting corks in the compost? They don’t rot. They sit around in the necks of bottles for years precisely because cork doesn’t rot. Of all the organic materials on God’s earth, cork is the one which most resembles the permanence and indestructibility of granite. So why does my wife imagine that putting them in a compost heap for six months is going to bring about any measurable degree of decomposition - particularly when they’re plastic.
Right, having got that out of my system, let me move on to the fact that compost heaps by their nature are always changing, they are never the same two days running. Every time you visit your heap there is something different and fascinating going on. Alright, you’re always greeted by the same friendly cloud of fruit flies but get past them and you could, for example, find yourself with a particularly fine example of pin mould growing on that gravy you disposed of last week. Or it could be a solemn convocation of slugs, gathered one assumes, in quiet contemplation of the inexhaustible bounty of their little four-sided universe.
Then there is always the possibility of something even more exciting. I once lifted the lid off one of my heaps to find a rat. It stared at me and I stared at it in mutual disbelief. Needless to say the rat recovered its wits before I did and scampered off towards the stream. It was followed by a spade which fell pathetically short – a gesture of impotent rage if ever there was one. But before the rat slipped into the water, it stopped and turned and I could have sworn that it raised two claws in my direction.
So, if the preceding encomium has persuaded you to think seriously about the joys of compost, remember; a heap needs constant attention, it is for life not just for Christmas. Personally, as I shuffle off into my dotage I expect my compost heaps to continue to provide me with comfort and companionship; an ever present reminder of the fate that awaits the mortal remains of us all. In fact, when the time comes I think I would like to be buried under my compost heap. For as Genesis reminds us: ‘compost thou art and unto compost shalt thou return’. At least I think that’s what it says.