I couldn't hold out any longer. It is late September. Rats or squirrels have started to steal my precious treasure. If I leave things much longer, any that they don't destroy risk rotting on the stalks.
The soft silky hairs peeking out of the pale green leafy wrappers have turned brown. This is a good sign, so I had read. I twist the head and snap down. It is heavy.
Peeling off the leaves, as if playing a solitary game of pass the parcel, I eventually glimpsed buttery yellow. The first cob. And not looking too bad.
About 45 years ago, I was sat, looking out of the back window of a small modern house in Petersfield. My dad busily working through his sweetcorn patch in the late summer sunlight. In the kitchen a large pan of water boiled. My brother and I sat in eager anticipation, just like you will be doing in about 15 minutes Lawrie.
The cobs would be boiled, butter would be slathered, we would sit down as a family and gorge.
Back from the allotment, I bring in this season's harvest. About 10 cobs, so fresh they were still growing just 15 minutes previously. I lower them into the pan of boiling water, maybe the very same one my mum and dad cooked theirs in, as this one was gifted to me by your grandma a year or two ago.
10 minutes later the clockwork chicken egg timer pings to say lunch is ready. I lift the cobs, steaming from the pan, plate up and bring them to the table. You choose the biggest one, as is to be expected (that is absolutely fine by your mother and me). I help you stick forks into each end and then smear cold, salty butter over your first serving. You lift it up eagerly with both hands and begin to bite into each popping kernel.
Years back, my brother and I are gorging, eating as much as we can, as more is brought out from the kitchen. We wipe the stripped husks in the leftover butter and lick them some more. Our lips, cheeks and chins drip with salty creaminess.
You are on to your second portion, more butter, bigger bites, wider smiles. I take a quick picture for my journal. Your mum and me finish ours, all of us enjoying a moment together, a celebration of home grown food, family meals together, living well.
For me, this little circle is now complete, the one linking me as a small boy, memories of my dad, with you now Lawrie.
I hope one day that you have an allotment or garden, that you grow your own sweetcorn, that you share it with your wife and small son or daughter, and when you do, happy memories such as this one come flooding back as your tastebuds remind you of this day.