Notes from the Potting Shed

 Woke up this morning to the peculiar sensation that the curtains were judging me. They’ve been hanging there since 1978, you’d think they’d have better things to do. I took it as a sign and made myself a bracing cup of nettle and barley tea — ghastly stuff, tastes like an old sock steeped in melancholy, but it keeps the wits sharp and the pigeons nervous.

Had a shuffle down to the allotments, though it’s mostly mud and ghosts this time of year. Someone’s left a single Wellington boot filled with something that may once have been salad. I suspect Young Derek, who’s always been keen on ‘experimental plantery’ as he calls it. Found an alarming quantity of feathers near plot 17. No sign of the bird. Or possibly person. Either way, they’re gone now.

Also passed Mabel Potts from Number 23, who was once again wearing that coat made of what she claims is ‘authentic wolf’. Frankly, it looks more like glued-on carpet remnants, but who am I to judge? She gave me a look that suggested either mild greeting or ancient blood feud — it’s so hard to tell with Mabel.

I’ll be settling down now with a toasted crumpet (if I can locate the crumpet tongs, which I last saw propping up the back gate) and listening to the wireless static for coded messages from beyond.

Will report back if anything shudders, flickers, or manifests.