Merry Morn, My Slightly Sooty Sunbeams,

A very good Friday to you from the porch of my allotment shed, where the kettle has just screamed its first greeting of the day and the air smells like dock leaves, unresolved mysteries, and pickled jubilation. Yes indeed — it's the start of the Bank Holiday Weekend, and I, for one, intend to mark the occasion by pottering with intensity, achieving very little with great ceremony, and perhaps deploying a minor flag.

Young Keith insists I post something “upbeat and engaging” to “boost my profile” which, as far as I can tell, means encouraging people to look at my face on purpose. But I am more interested in the celebratory rites of spring: the unfurling of suspiciously large rhubarb leaves, the ceremonial sweeping of the compost steps, and the traditional Friday Observance of the Three and a Half Sausages.

This weekend I plan to do the following:

Finally locate the missing member of the Widdershins Morris Men (last seen ascending a maypole with no regard for downward logistics).

Begin construction of a trellis system to confuse the beans into fruiting sideways.

Attend the annual Invisible Dog Show on the village green. I’m judging Best in Breed again. I expect stiff competition in the Mysterious Whiff category.

Also, my bank is closed and I have absolutely no idea why this means I must celebrate, but I shall honour the custom all the same with a tray of something alarming from Mrs Netherwhack’s kitchen (she claims it’s a pie, but then she claims a lot of things).

So whether you're off to the seaside, up to your knees in hosepipe rituals, or simply reclining in a nest of your own construction, I wish you all joy, mild weather, and no more than three unsolicited phone calls from mysterious men offering to replace your roof with “summat aquatic.”

Happy Bank Holiday, you daft parade of lovelies.

Yours in spannerweed, sausage smoke and civic bewilderment,
Virgil Twobyfour
Clogwearer | Shed Philosopher | Knight of the Compost Order (retired)

P.S. If you see Keith, please ask him to come in for his tea. He’s been out in the orchard muttering into a Tupperware and drawing diagrams in jam. I think Something Is Afoot.