The shed needs weatherproofing before Winter sets in. Paint and a spruce up. A bit of fixing around the door. Possibly some new roof felt. In our usual run up to Winter, we have mild, windy and grey damp days. The golden leaves look radiant against this particular slate dark grey, but it does nothing for your mood. And now I am waiting for a spell of crisp weather to enable wood to dry out before I paint it, and then to allow everything to dry out again once I've finished.
In the meantime, in slanting rain, I run past the shed with my head wrapped in my hood, trying not to look. I rush to pick tender stems of Purple Broccoli. I pull up muddy Parsnips from the yielding black earth, trim a few handfuls of shiny Chard and some herbs, and ignore the steep angle of guilt in me as the wind snatches at my coat.
Listening to the raging wind blasting down the street last night as it hurled itself into dead ends and alleyways, I thought about the shed, tucked into the corner of a wide field, wondering if it had been flattened by the fury and pushed as planks, against the cruel unyielding wires of the fence.
It's dark outside. It's raining. A few late fireworks fizz into the clouds like pale sherbet. And I am tempted to walk out into a moonlit field to see if my little wooden hut still stands.