LAST time we met I talked about what a demanding little vegetable the lettuce is; how, despite providing everything that a romaine or butterhead could hope for, they still refused to grow. Well, I solved that problem quick smart: I peed on them. And I'm not talking metaphorically. I mean I urinated on them, repeatedly.

This was beneficial in several ways. First, it provided extra nitrogen, something my nursery recommended (along with raising the acidity level of the soil; it turned out our soil was too alkaline with a pH level of 7.5 to 8). Second, it reasserted my authority. The lettuces had been trying to undermine me; that much was clear. They had been trying to buck the system by not growing. I had to face them down - show them that the only vegetable calling the shots around here was me. Vegetables, I have discovered, are like children: they respond to clear boundaries and strict discipline. Urinating on something sends an unequivocal message, one even a potato can understand. Accordingly, all the vegies have fallen into line and appear to be growing well.

But no sooner had I solved the lettuce issue than I was confronted by a far more serious problem. Worms. In tomatoes.

When I was child I had a picture book that showed a worm poking out of an apple, an illustration that was obviously meant to be humorous. It has taken me the best part of 38 years to realise just how unfunny that particular drawing is. Our tomatoes had taken two months to grow - a long time when you check them every day. We had huge grosse lisse tomatoes, romas and black Russians, plus the usual array of cherry toms, all of which had got to within about 15 minutes of ripening when they were devoured by a biblical plague of tiny yet apparently ravenous worms, an infestation the proportions of which would have given Job a run for his money.

Reluctantly, we stripped the affected tomatoes, filling a bucket with them. Somehow, I managed not to cry during this process. I then hit the plants with an organic insecticide called Dipel, which uses the bacteria Bacillus thuringiensis to induce paralysis of the worm's stomach, causing them to stop feeding and starve to death within two days.

"Starve to death?" I asked the man at the nursery. "Don't you have anything more painful?" Given what they had done to my tomatoes, I was prepared to crucify every single worm and place them around the planter box as a warning to other pests.

The shop assistant regarded me suspiciously. "I think you'll find this does the trick. You just have to be patient."

Patience: if only they sold that at the nursery.

telliott@smh.com.au