If you ever wondered why most allotments seem to be run by chaps who are, shall we say, no longer in the first flush of youth, there is a very good reason for this. It is because it is a lot of hard work if you are going to do it properly, and if you have a full time job it is quite challenging to find the time to do all your digging and sowing and what-have-you. So I consider myself remarkably blessed that Mrs Low is as keen on the allotment as I am, and is often to be found there toiling away when I am stuck behind my desk at work.

There are, however, one or two drawbacks in running an allotment as a couple. Sometimes, for instance, you have to listen to what the other person wants. Sometimes you don't get what you want. It is all very galling.

Since getting our plot, however, I have learned all about the gentle art of compromise. I have, for instance, generously permitted the cultivation of beetroot, a vegetable which in my opinion is fit only to fed to farm animals (and then only if they have been very naughty).

The other area where I have had to give in is on the subject of coloured vegetables. I am something of a traditionalist, believing that vegetables should be the colour they were when I was a lad: carrots should be orange, cabbages should be green, tomatoes should be red. My wife, however, thinks that there is no point in growing your own unless you include some interesting varieties. And that means growing a few fancy coloured ones, like purple Brussels sprouts and Red Russian kale.

For the past few years we have grown yellow courgettes alongside the traditional green ones. I have to admit they are pretty good, too. But the variety we grew last year, Soleil, turned out all wrong - a rather bilious shade of yellow with green streaks. They looked seasick. I don't know what went wrong, but I thought we had better try another one this year.

The question is, which? We once grew Taxi, which did pretty well our first year, but it is not widely available these days. Anyway, I am not sure I approve of growing a vegetable named after a New York cab on a London allotment. Some people rate Gold Rush highly, while others swear by Orelia. Then there's Parador, and Jemmer, not to mention One Ball, which are yellow and round. It is all very difficult. Perhaps I can interest my wife in the Italian variety Lungo Bianco, which is white, or Nero di Milano, which is black, or at least the sort of very dark green that passes for black. Then there is always Rugosa Friulana, a warty thing described by Seeds of Italy as "very ugly" - they're not joking - but also extremely flavoursome. Still, I've got about three months to go before I have to sow my courgettes: I expect I will have made up my mind by then.

Leeks: you can't really beat them, can you? Here is last year's crop, covered in a tasteful dusting of snow and none the worse for that: it takes more than a light outbreak of winter weather to put leeks off their game. Along with broad beans and purple sprouting broccoli they are one of my favourite vegetables, and all the more lovable for the fact that they are one of the few things available to eat from the allotment at this time of year.
That, though, is the very reason why I am feeling rather guilty at the moment. The leeks in the picture are Musselburgh, one of the more popular leek varieties, and for the last couple of years they have stood the Low family in pretty good stead. Productive, reliable and tasty, they are pretty much without fault.
So why have I betrayed them?
I bought my seeds for the year the other day, from the rather wonderful Real Seed catalogue; but instead of sticking to the leeks which have done so well by us for the last few years, I was seduced by some fancy French variety. Bleu de Solaise, they are called, and according to the Real Seed people they are long, with blue-grey leaves, and very hardy. In a comparative trial with Musselburgh, they were noticeably more vigorous, growing faster and bigger. They sound great.
But frankly, why bother? The old ones were more than good enough, so why change? The fact is, I am just a bit of an old tart. Like many gardeners, I cannot help wondering whether there isn't some variety out there which is better than the one I am growing already. It is a perpetual fascination with the new and the untried, a classic case of the grass always being greener on the other side. Or in this case, the leeks. And not exactly greener, more like bluer.
Anyway, one cannot just grow the same thing every year - that would be boring. All the same, I cannot help feeling mildly guilty, as though I had let down a trusted friend. Sorry, leeks.

It's a fantastic time for gardening, January. Now you might think this is a bit of an odd thing to say, what with the weather being cold and wet and there not being much action on the vegetable patch apart from a few brave leeks manfully holding their own against the depredations of winter, and half a dozen cabbages which look moth-eaten but will probably taste wonderful. But much of the joy of gardening is about anticipation, and if January is good for anything it is for looking forward to the rest of the gardening year.

There are the seed catalogues, for instance: I read them the way some men read motoring magazines. All those varieties, all that promise. Shall I get the lettuce Ubriacona Frastagliata (it means Drunken Woman, apparently) or the Cos Freckles? Or shall I go crazy and just get both? Decisions, decisions.

But it is choosing my potatoes for the year that gives me the most pleasure. I can get quite excited about potatoes (especially Pink Fir Apples - here is the remains of last year's crop, still going strong in February). I know they don't look very enthralling or distinguished - rather brown and muddy in their natural state - and their reputation is that of one of the food world's supporting players, a stodgy filler to go alongside the more exciting main attraction. But believe me, once you get into them there is a whole world of potato-related fun out there. Which varieties to grow, how to cook them, the rival merits of the Arran Victory and the Red Duke of York - there is an awful lot more to potatoes than just boiled, roast or mashed.

The other weekend I went to the London Potato Fair, an annual event at a south London school where you can go and choose from more than 100 varieties of seed potato. The room was packed with potato lovers, wonderful eccentric types like the elderly woman I met who was scurrying round the room with a determined air as she tried to track down her favourite spud.

I came away with some Anya, Kestrel, Red Duke of York, Belle de Fontenay, King Edward - oh yes, and something called Salad Blue, which isn't a salad potato at all, although it is blue. My eight-year-old son Orlando chose that one. For any potato lovers out there, we will be supplying tasting notes in about six months' time.