How Not to Mend the Shed – Or the French Vine Conspiracy

It rained today. Not much, but enough. Enough to make the shed roof leak. As you may recall I have just put my precious junk into (or rather back into) the shed. For safekeeping. Against the elements. Only the elements are also putting themselves into the shed. Possibly for safekeeping, or maybe for fun, but I suspect a certain amount of malicious intent. Because frankly, the places where the elements have discovered to get in are pretty small and obscure. I feel that the elements have probably gone to a lot of trouble to discover these small cracks and orifices. And if penetrating my shed was just for fun, then why the hours of dedicated research? Ipso facto, malicious intent. A prejudice against soon-to-be impoverished single mothers.

However, in the spirit of Just Fucking Sort It September I was undaunted. Elements pshaw! I declared. I will not let a few malicious elements defeat my cunning plan of making millions out of dismantled, slightly rotten ex-flat-packed cheap furniture. So I set to to mend the shed. This is what happened:

Firstly I assessed the damage by carefully examining puddles and small drippy bits on the floor and sides of the shed. I traced the aforementioned puddles and small drippy bits to their associated holes in the roof and walls. This was most revealing. Because there appeared to be an escaped vineyard attempting to enter the shed along with the elements. Could it be that most of the crops of middle France were also prejudiced against soon-to-be impoverished single mothers? It appeared so. This smacked of a conspiracy.

Undaunted I decided to eliminate the escaped crops of middle France. Hours later, stained with mouldy grape juice and feeling slightly sticky I surveyed my work. A pile the size of your traditional EU wine lake of mouldy grapes, vicious vines and unknowable tendrils adorned not only my precious slightly rotten ex-flat-packed cheap furniture, but the exterior of the shed, the rest of the garden and most of the outskirts of Cardiff.

‘Ha!’ I declared to the French escapee. ‘That showed you!’ The pile grinned knowingly. It had started raining again. The elements had taken on a new vigour. A vigour that only elements can achieve when they discover that not only that they can enter a woman’s shed through previous cracks and orifices, but that now, due to the lack of most of the crops of middle France, the cracks and orifices were larger and more welcoming than they were before I had started welding my trusty loppers.

‘Ha!’ declared the conspiratorial elements. ‘Fucking Sorted.’