Monday, 27 June 2016

Enter The Shed - stage left.

"A" Shed anyway.


Drrrrrring. Drrrrinnnnnng.

“Hello”

‘Bob?’

“Bitsnbobs?”

‘Aye, how are you?’

“Better than you lot that’s for sure, and don’t start AYE-ing me, we don’t give out nationality just for that you know. You need, at a minimum to toss a caber now and again.”

‘I lived in Aberdeen for a year’.

“That changes everything.”

‘It changed me.’

“You should write about it on the blog someday.”

I have – besides that’s why I’m phoning… we’re waiting for a box of archives from you.

“I sent ‘em, there in the Shed.”

‘The Shed? We have a Shed?’

“You do, it’s round the back where the chickens are.”

‘We don’t have any chickens.’

“They’ll be in the Shed too.”

‘Ok, great, thanks, I’ll go open it right now.’


“Take care of yourself, troubled waters ahead I fear.”

'Thanks, speak soon, bye.'

The late evening sun catches the trees unaware and suddenly the leaves of last winter are laid bare, hiding amongst the green growth of spring.
They are embarrassed, unsure as whether to drop or curl up.
The wind could free them but there is no breeze, and the birds would take them to line their nests, but those nests are long time made.
Even the cuckoo has stopped searching.

this post was an int AND an ab, the first i think so - intyandab1

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