Bryony Hill, wife of Jimmy, is a talented artist and super-keen but far-from-purist gardener. She enjoys both these pursuits so much that she has combined them in a charming book, just published. The following extracts explain how she came by the title for her book and offers hints for autumn garden maintenance. 

To me "black magic" does not conjure up a divine box of naughtiness, but a bag of rich, organic matter full of natural goodness. I have subsequently invented a new acronym to compete with DINKY (dual income no kids yet) and SKI (spend the kids' inheritance). Mine is as follows: I'm a SHMOC - I spend my husband's money on compost.

Nowadays we are more aware of what we have done to our planet and we must all endeavour to prevent further damage to the environment. Enough of my homilies, but nevertheless I ruthlessly try to boycott any compost containing peat. I buy the best offer available at the local garden centres; I don't pay over the top unless it is for permanent planting, and for the short-term, at any rate, the cheapest is more than adequate. I probably pot on tomato seedlings at least three times into ever larger containers before they are released into the garden and because of this they receive sufficient nourishment in everyday, multipurpose compost and are only fed with a proprietary food after the appearance of the first truss of fruit.

Jimmy completed his autobiography in 1998 and, when the manuscript was finally dispatched to his publisher, we decided to get some fresh sea air at Brighton, but without warning he pulled in at a car showroom. Ten minutes later he was the proud owner of a brand new, scarlet Alfa Romeo Gtv. When Des Lynam found out what he had been up to he asked me, "Tell me Bryon[sic], what do you think of the car?"

"Honestly?" I replied cautiously, "Well, let's put it this way. It's great fun to drive but I can only fit one bag of compost in the boot."

He paused for a second or two. "'I see," he drawled in his inimitable way, "so you're a compost kind of girl, are you?"

Insofar as homegrown compost is concerned, I am a fanatic. Coffee grains, tealeaves and fluff from the vacuum cleaner go into the green plastic bucket in the kitchen prior to being emptied into one of two bins situated in a sheltered spot by the greenhouse. Some years ago our local council made these available for £10. They are large, square plastic containers comprising six stackable layers, the final one fitted with a hinged lid. They function very well and each year we empty them exclusively on to the vegetable plot as we don't manufacture enough to cover the whole garden. I never turn the contents, merely emptying the bucket daily on top of what is already there.

Sometimes we have the help of a rat who digs away in search of a free meal and his energetic churning produces a magnificent, sweet-smelling matter the colour of dark chocolate, which is nearly good enough to eat.

It seems that I am not alone in rescuing every lettuce leaf and potato peeling. In a Sunday supplement, I came across an account of a girl who had moved to the country and who was going to London for dinner with some friends. They were given artichokes as a starter and when the plates were being cleared away she became more and more agitated. "Do you think I could possibly have those, please?" she asked. "I would hate them to go to waste, so would it be awfully rude if I took them home to Gloucestershire for my compost bin?"

Autumn maintenance