Son of Shed

Ooooh, it's all go in my paving factory though there are a few "seconds" (i.e. a pile of rubbly concrete) where I have become too impatient and have evicted the curing paving slabs from their moulds before they were ready so I could embark on the next batch. I must calm down in my production, or get more moulds. Mixing that concrete by hand is damned hard work. I do use a spade so not actually by hand in case you were worrying.

My vegetable garden is planned. I bought a load of sleepers today (heavy planks not lazy students) to edge the veg beds. Cost: about £50 per courgette. I also nearly bought the Shed a baby shed. It's a tiny toolshed like a sentry box or an outside khazi. I'll paint it to match the Shed and use it to store my one spade. Mr Smith broke my gardening fork yesterday when he offered to help weed. I am suspicious this may not have been entirely accidental. I found him another more manly fork with which to attack path and plot.

My final task of the day as set for me by my task master, The Apprentice, before I embarked upon Vegetarian Tuesday's dinner and the ironing, was to varnish a mighty pile of flooring planks for The Pavilion (the artist formerly known as the Shed). Every bee, fly and any other passing flying insect decided to become laminated between the coats of polyurethane as natural exhibits. "Mother, what are all those flies doing all over my floor?" "The Hokey Cokey?"

I would lounge in bed tomorrow morning but we have a delivery of garden furniture ordered by Mr Smith to come at the worst possible moment when every bit of our garden is taken up with piles of wood, sheds, more sheds, bits of soon to be sheds, ex sheds and ex garden furniture. He means well; I mean to kill him ... with a garden chair. I'll put his body in my little shed with my broken fork.