The Raggedy Shed

I arrive at the allotment carrying a heavy shoulder bag filled with basic DIY and gardening tools. The spray of 99p shops in our area makes it possible to double up on hand tools and invest in new hasps, padlocks and bolts without fear of penury.

The shed itself is rotting, though charming with it's still bright, blistered paint and faded wooden bones . One gentle kick and I see it winded and sagging; a cardboard clothes carrier left out in the rain. It's simple to remove the old padlock and swap it for a new one but with the door gaping wide at the bottom it will have to be patched up and a second lower lock fitted to keep it closed. It judders, bends and finally splinters upon opening but digging out the surrounding soil should clear it's path.

The small window at the front is a loose pane of glass held in at only one corner by a few inches of aging putty. It moves like it's clamped between tiring teeth.

At home I have a random wood pile. Things I was collecting to possibly make a cold frame from. It should provide me with what I need; a patchwork of strips, planks and screws to keep the wind out. And possibly the mice (or are they rats?) The small tunnel in the corner suggests something that scurries, as does the strange morning bus shelter smell but it's all fine. When the door closes a calm swaddles. The low windows frame the pale grey spring sky, the panorama a pencil drawing; a skeletal fence with shredded bin bags knotted tight in rows along the wire, fluttering in the breeze. My small flask of coffee and nub of chocolate taste incredible, black and bitter as imagined crows locked out in the cold.