Hot and crossed
It wasn’t often you would find John working in the shed. It was only a garden shed after all. But it had a work bench, a hammer, a few rusty nails and a stirring stick with generations of paint on it. On top of the beer fridge, some old brushes sat in pickle jars with their bristles turned over like toboggans. A permanent piece of history, the brushes were glued with a skin of congealed turps and what was once mission brown paint. It wasn’t surprising then that Jim would have to investigate the mystery of the fresh hammering and sawing noises from within. He snuck over army style and watched nervously through the dusty, slatted glass panes.
Happy Easter ya prick! John laughed as he banged twisted nails through an old piece of lattice. See if you park your car on
