Hanging on in the shanty shed.

The shed came with the house.

It also came with a ship’s bell and a wendyhouse low roof that has cracked my husband’s skull so many times he had to wear a hard hat to enter the place safely. Mice live under the floorboards, slow worms live in the compost heap leaning against it and Madam Charlotte’s feral kittens slink in out of the rain sometimes.

It leaks, it creaks and it is falling down. Garden tools only stay dry on the left hand side and only my flower stakes are slowly rotting away in a corner bucket that has funnelled all of the rain into its sodden depths. A tarpaulin  seemed like a good idea in the summer, but by the end of the winter, it has been lashed by storms and shredded  by the thorns of the dog rose.

It has had it.

Spring is coming fast and there is no more that can be done to patch it up . The shanty shed is all out of metaphors and must be pulled down and replaced.

When, that is, I can be bothered!