Last night I marched (slid) about 100 tiger worms to their inevitable death.

I am a man of action and felt the food in my composter needed a slithery pick-me-up.

What else does a man-of-action do in mid-January as the hoe gathers dust?

The wormery is the next step to Good Life perfection, providing oodles of rotting compost for my allotment.

Barbara ordered the worms over the interweb. Yes, you heard that right: a computer.

And, sure enough, worm-like creatures arrived in a bubble-packed envelope . . . through the post.

Whatever will they think of next? If only Blockbuster had offered sealed packs of worms with their video cassettes . . . I reckon if my computer finds a way of trimming my barnet and pouring me a macchiato, the High Street is truly screwed. Didn’t seem to be much delay in the arrival of the worms; Oxford’s postal service was surprisingly snappy. Pat on the back, Pat!

Barbara and I set the package down on the kitchen sideboard and took a step back. It was definitely moving.

I know how Kevin Bacon felt in Tremors and felt the immediate need to clamber to solid ground. I fearlessly peeked inside. They were real.

So, having prepared a lovely meal of withering salad ends and remains of a faltering aubergine parmigiana, I tipped the whole lot into my wormery.

Now, I’ll be honest; it’s a tad nippy outside at the moment. East Oxford is hardly Siberia, but cold all the same.

My new chums visibly shivered amongst the rotting garbage. I had a feeling my enthusiasm may have been over-zealous as their crawls became… well… limp?

Seems worms feel the cold too. Poor little blighters.

They were set to embark on the heroic deed of munching my food waste into mulch and I send them to a worm Gulag to perform the task.

You see. I have form for this kind of thing.

My last team of worms perished after a particularly heinous curry was slopped into their home. Spicy food, like the cold, won’t help.

So, sometimes, trying to do your bit for the wellbeing of the planet – recycling ’n’ all that – can backfire. The last few weeks has seen little action on the allotment. I peer longingly out of the flat window every now and then to see the odd intrepid soul beavering away, burning stuff. But, until the thaw, I must remain patient. Otherwise lives will only be lost.