Notes from the Potting Shed

 It’s a slow sort of Friday, the kind that creeps in on slippered feet and asks if you’ve got the time, then sits down next to you and starts shelling broad beans without being asked. Woke early to the sound of something indistinct rummaging in the guttering — either a bird or an unresolved memory. Poked at it with a broom handle and it fled, trailing the scent of creosote and bad decisions.

This morning was spent in my shed attending to the Root Drawer, which has swollen alarmingly with unidentified tubers. There’s one in there that may be sentient. It's growing inwards, which I find unsettling.

Brought out my collection of commemorative spoons for a little airing and light buffing. The ones from the 1972 Argyle Marmalade Jubilee remain inexplicably sticky, though the shine on the one from the Bishop’s Footrace of ’88 brought a tear to my eye. (He was never quite the same afterwards.)

In the afternoon, I attempted a brief conversation with the honeysuckle hedge, which is still annoyed with me about last week’s misidentified bee. We’re at something of an impasse.

I include a photograph taken moments before the clouds remembered their terrible purpose. It may depict the garden, or possibly a close-up of my sleeve. Interpret at will.

With love from the foggy fringes,
Virgil