The problem is that composting is, like other gardener’s habits, rampantly addictive. It’s all very well gathering melon rinds and soggy basil; what about minor weeds, coffee grounds, toilet-paper rolls? Used tissues? Fluff from the tumble dryer? Increasingly, the world becomes merely a source of compost. Here, I’ll take your moth-nibbled sweater. Please don’t feel you have to finish, or even start, your salad. Would it be strange to bring home this used tea bag? The streets of London aren’t exactly strewn with decomposing seaweed, wood ash, hedge clippings, and pond silt, so one must get creative; I’m not too proud to eye police-horse dung. When I die, put my ashes straight on the heap.