Sealed inside their little bin, there’s no way of knowing whether the worms are thriving or shriveling without popping it open and having a look. To alleviate the anxiety I had to take a little peek. All the worms have climbed up the sides and are hanging onto the lid or trying to escape. Is it too wet? Too hot? Or too acid? Don’t they like the pink fur apple potatoes I gave them? Are they offended I gave them an out of date copy of the Guardian?
Fortunately, it’s apparently just as stressful being a worm in a new environment and other wormers have had this problem with far worse consequences (“They should have stayed in the wormery for crying out loud! It was built for them. It’s a worm nirvana. A wormana.”) At least none of mine have got out. Yet.