Three days ago I met a worm. It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon and I was tending to my peas in the garden.

“One day I will open you, my darlings,” I said to the peas, who were dressed up all warm swimming in brine and neatly arranged in their cans. I heard a murmur of excitement. “But not today!” The peas squealed with disappointment. But this was nothing new. I told them this every day. Our little ritual.

As I was wiping my spectacles on my sleeve, I heard a little voice from behind my left foot. “Excuse me, Robert,” it said. I looked around to see who was there. Nobody. “Robert, I’m down here!” and sure enough, when I crouched down and twisted my body all the way round, I saw him. The little worm.

“Hello,” I replied, with a cautious curiosity, “Can I help you?”

“When are you going to open your peas? We’ve all been wondering.”

I looked around to see if he had company. I couldn’t see anyone. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me and my friends.”

“What friends?”

“My friends who live underground. When are you going to open your peas?”

“They’re not ready yet. It isn’t the season.”

The worm sighed, and headed back under the soil, and I haven’t seen him since.