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A Tuesday Evening Special Story - Minty's Shed.
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A distraction for any of you creatives from the pleasures of the Word Cup:
The shed, Minty’s shed, that grey shed at the bottom of her dog legged garden, a brilliant shape for the locals to practice their wedge play on the Musselburgh quality fairway of her lawns. The shed, the pride, joy and epitome of her garden, the deviant centre for ABers, many who had got to tread on the Mr. Sheen polished step leading up to it.
The back of the garden, behind all the stone cats, cauliflowers, bird-tables and all the rest of the accoutrements that Minty laid out for any criminals, miscreants and the rest of the Kim Jock Eck mobs, such as anneasquith and Wharton to trip over. The ten tons of gravel, a recent addition, the crunch of foot on the Permian sandstone to alert yours truly that her garden was being invaded.
The shed, a veritable tardis, the lawnmower, the edge-strimmer – not used recently evidently, the spade, pick and hoe, all instruments that have sent our heroine to hospital, her pots and bits, the green garden wire, a wheelbarrow all making their home here. However, to the back, the whiplash centre, in the dark, the building appearing to be cavernous and extending way beyond her palatial property.
There, one could just make out a St. Andrews cross on the wall, stocks, cages, whips, paddles and crops, the latex wear of our Châtelaine, even a hosepipe attached to the cold water - and plenty of the sparklies, so many of them in all colours of the rainbow, waiting to be used by Madame Whiplash.
And there, on the beam, ominously, threatening, welcoming, three massive hooks and beneath them, black chains, freshly painted, the links finishing in slave-style, heavy manacles, rusty padlocks ready to be locked, the keys somewhere in her attic along with the general purpose lubricant needed to open them.
No seating, not even a bench, the cold damp of a concrete floor waiting for the victims, the coarse wood floors of an 18thC cutter plying its trade between Senegal and Florida would be more comforting to the victims here.
Above, three rusting plaques tacked to the wall, one with “Bernie” printed on it, the second with “Slappy” and the third, even more corroded than the other two, “tony.”
The manacles were waiting, so was Minty, out on the polished step, one more wipe with her Pledge, waiting for the moment when…….
Please add possible scenarios to continue this…..
The shed, Minty’s shed, that grey shed at the bottom of her dog legged garden, a brilliant shape for the locals to practice their wedge play on the Musselburgh quality fairway of her lawns. The shed, the pride, joy and epitome of her garden, the deviant centre for ABers, many who had got to tread on the Mr. Sheen polished step leading up to it.
The back of the garden, behind all the stone cats, cauliflowers, bird-tables and all the rest of the accoutrements that Minty laid out for any criminals, miscreants and the rest of the Kim Jock Eck mobs, such as anneasquith and Wharton to trip over. The ten tons of gravel, a recent addition, the crunch of foot on the Permian sandstone to alert yours truly that her garden was being invaded.
The shed, a veritable tardis, the lawnmower, the edge-strimmer – not used recently evidently, the spade, pick and hoe, all instruments that have sent our heroine to hospital, her pots and bits, the green garden wire, a wheelbarrow all making their home here. However, to the back, the whiplash centre, in the dark, the building appearing to be cavernous and extending way beyond her palatial property.
There, one could just make out a St. Andrews cross on the wall, stocks, cages, whips, paddles and crops, the latex wear of our Châtelaine, even a hosepipe attached to the cold water - and plenty of the sparklies, so many of them in all colours of the rainbow, waiting to be used by Madame Whiplash.
And there, on the beam, ominously, threatening, welcoming, three massive hooks and beneath them, black chains, freshly painted, the links finishing in slave-style, heavy manacles, rusty padlocks ready to be locked, the keys somewhere in her attic along with the general purpose lubricant needed to open them.
No seating, not even a bench, the cold damp of a concrete floor waiting for the victims, the coarse wood floors of an 18thC cutter plying its trade between Senegal and Florida would be more comforting to the victims here.
Above, three rusting plaques tacked to the wall, one with “Bernie” printed on it, the second with “Slappy” and the third, even more corroded than the other two, “tony.”
The manacles were waiting, so was Minty, out on the polished step, one more wipe with her Pledge, waiting for the moment when…….
Please add possible scenarios to continue this…..
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peas, just the bit on her avatar that developed from the Ed's contribution:
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then a second one about being a candidate for some local garden visit campaign....
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then a second one about being a candidate for some local garden visit campaign....
Bless me, cross my heart, but I'm not Holy Joe, slappy....***, I forgot to mention the church candles, nicked from Westminster Cathedral, and the polished brass plate from Edinburgh Castle, once used to check if the Black Watch were naked underneath when there was a king on the throne, and clothed with ERII walking around, so that she wouldn't be surprised. Wouldn't surprise me if there was the odd Holyrood Palace gate in there.
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