Worms. I’ve got a few.
I split my time between a small inner-city apartment in Sydney, Australia, and a wild property that was once a farm, before it was abandoned in the 1970s, four hours to the south.
They are opposites in almost every way – one thrums with the incessant noise of a big city, while the other moves to the beat of the wilderness: kookaburra choruses, deafening cicadas and, at night, powerful owl hoots and the gurgling, zombie-like calls of brushtail possums. But the one thing both properties have in common is that they each boast a cranking worm farm. The one on the farm is huge and deals with the organic waste of an entire household, while the one in the city is small enough to fit on a porch and easy to set up – suitable for anyone.