Thousand-pound tomatoes

I always thought it was something that happened to other men as they got older, but not me. I was different. Owing to my extraordinary machismo and strength of character, I would not experience this ‘life change’ until I was at least 75 — and at that point I would just take a pill to restore my virility. But it’s no good. Turns out we all suffer from this affliction in middle age, no matter how determined we are to keep our peckers up. I have succumbed. I’ve taken up gardening.

OK, ‘gardening’ is the wrong word. It conjures up images of elderly women in floppy hats, stooping over their gladioli. I am not a gardener. I am a tomato specialist.

For the past four years, I have been growing tomato plants and now consider myself one of the world’s leading experts on Solanum lycopersicum. Seriously. I’m ready for Gardener’s Question Time — or at least I would be if all the questions were about tomatoes.

Which makes it all the more baffling that this year’s crop has been an unmitigated disaster. I’ve done everything right. I grew the plants from seeds that I germinated in my conservatory in late March. I chose a large number of varieties, ranging from Gardener’s Delight to Golden Sunrise. I didn’t move them outside until the end of May to avoid the last frost. And I’ve now transplanted them twice, first into medium-sized pots, then into much larger ones.

The first problem I encountered was blight, which kicked in unseasonably early. After extensive picture research on Google, I concluded they were suffering from Fusarium and Verticillium fungi as well as spotted wilt virus. I was reminded of the time my best friend went for a check-up at a VD clinic and told he had a ‘full house’ — the doctor’s phrase for three separate STDs.