Compost

You know you're obsessed when you read a line like this:
"Compost. It's the most beautiful word in the English language."*
... and you think that's a reasonable thing to say.
I've always been too half-hearted about the compost for my own good. Never turned it or fussed over it because life just seemed too short.
Mind you, I have always admired a good compost heap - I was dead impressed by those at Cruden Farm, and I feel sure Dame Elisabeth wouldn't mind me saying they are amongst her finest achievements.
But I seemed to have turned the corner. I now have three heaps on the go: one nearly cooked, one just started, and one purely of muck from the chook house. I have a black bin for the first stages, and two open bins made of light wooden pallets wired together.
I have even found myself worrying about the ratio of dry to soggy, and turning the heaps over from time to time. I think it's the chooks that helped me over the heap hump. Having an ongoing supply of pooey straw really does make a difference to a person's life.
And if you think that's a reasonable thing to say, you're on the edge yourself.

*Gardening Australia magazine.