Autumn. Season of mellow fruitfulness.

Discussion in 'The NAAFI Bar' started by TheIronDuke, Sep 10, 2009.

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  1. I thought pride came before a fall.

    Not fcuking summer!
  2. Dont worry mistersoft, you are correct but you must remember our colonial cousins have some quaint customs including incorrect names for the seasons and thinking that a garage without a car (curiously referred to as "automobiles") parked in it is a shed!! They will be spelling colour incorrectly next.

    Back to the actual purpose of the thread, Saturday morning will find me on the first of many strolls through the early morning mists foraging for various varieties of fungii. Such fruits of the woodland floor to be fried in olive oil with a little salt and pepper by the long haired house supervisor on my return, any surplus to be lovingly stored in my SHED. I have found my correctly described wooden outbuilding constructed of wood to be the perfect ambient conditions for the storage of fungii and surplus fruit from the orchard. But it has to be wood, metal or plastic have far too great a temperature variation for optimum storage conditions and brick . . . . . . . well dont get me started.
  3. Indeed Albertous. The US and the UK, separated by a common language.

    Here Frogside they don't speak the Queen's English either and have strange names for anything and everything. My shed is my shed and it's not Mon Shed or Ma Shed, it's MY shed. I say my shed, as I've just had to kick out squatters. A family of wasps (I take it they were a family as they did seem quite close) had decided to make a nest in my shed and there wasn't even the vaguest hint of them offering to pay any rent. So they got unceremoniously dumped elsewhere and the rather battered vents (which is how they got in) were replaced by a couple of nice new shiny and totally insect resistant/proof vents.

    And I'm sure it was the wasps that played aroung with the fuel tap on the lawnmower, which is why it took me so long to start it last time I used it.
  4. Have you not considered moose agistment?
  5. And is it no surprise that French wasps "la guêpe" (pronounced "gopper") are so much more annoying than the British variety who wish for nothing more than a small share of a jam butty on a pleasant summers outing?

    Annoying but far less comical than the Spanish variety who buzz with a lisp or the German species that practice their own minute version of Blitzkrieg, dive bombing the unprepared holiday maker.
  6. Not recently.

    After undoing the work of the mischievous wasps by turning on the fuel and hitting the mower repeatedly with a large hammer, it decided to start.

    Of course hitting it with a large hammer wasn't strictly necessary but it did make me feel better.

  7. Grownup_Rafbrat

    Grownup_Rafbrat LE Good Egg (charities)

    The problem with our colonial cousins across the pond is that their version of English is based on English as she was spoken in the 17th Century, when their ancestors left this fair and sceptred isle.

    At that time, we English referred to the pre-Winter season as 'fall', and some rural folk in the West Country do so to this very day.
  8. She keeps sneaking in with opinion doesn't she? :)
  9. And I STILL haven't had my scissors back.
  10. Grownup_Rafbrat

    Grownup_Rafbrat LE Good Egg (charities)

    I'm using them to trim my rawlplugs.
  11. old_fat_and_hairy

    old_fat_and_hairy LE Book Reviewer Reviews Editor

    Now that I would pay to watch! :wink:
  12. Beat me to it. :oops:

    I was just going to ask for pictures. :wink:

    And hopefully (eventually) my scissors back.
  13. Grownup_Rafbrat

    Grownup_Rafbrat LE Good Egg (charities)

    Later, later. It's a very precarious operation ....
  14. I am affraid you just have to move on. Grownup_Rafbrat is never going to return your precious item.

    Could I suggest you pick up the October edition of "Essential Garden Shed Tools" next time your passing a news agents. It has an eight page centre spread on garden scissors. I am particularly taken and will certainly invest in the new "Scissors, dahlia pruning" with all weather plastic handle grips. Its a long story but I once had a particularly nasty injury, which took some explaining in A & E and she of all power still blames for some strange bedroom practices, whilst pruning in only a light shower. Its all weather handle grips for me everytime now.
  15. Ahem
    When I moved the family into our home, I was lucky enough to inherit a shed that the previous owner didn’t want. It wasn’t In the best of conditions, but a liberal coating of dark green cuprinol made it feel a whole lot better about itself, and it willing swallowed my collection of rusty tools, coffee jars full of mixed nails, expended smoke grenades and a wide selection of obsolete American car spares with a relish. Everything I asked of it was done in next to no time (well, usually all Sunday afternoon) and with the minimum of fuss (if you don’t count me swearing when I banged my head on the sloping roof).
    Every winter I would attempt to fit the barbq into it, with varying degree’s of success, and every spring I would return and hunt for the lawnmower, strimmer and rake. Often I would find other items that I thought I had lost/leant out/ebayed and on more than one occasion, I discovered that the shed was hiding something just long enough for me to buy a replacement, meaning that I now have two of them. It was a deep and loving relationship that me and the shed enjoyed, a bit give and take, but that’s shed life for you.
    Then I did a terrible thing.
    I listened to, and agreed with, the lovely Mrs T49, and ordered a 12 x 12 metal shed, to be erected under and behind our blossom tree. This allowed us to get all manner of items that usually just hang about in the garden into the shed and out of site, allowing our garden to look “tidy” Bikes, spare tyres, field mice and a selection of punctured footballs have all found shelter and solace in the new metal shed, along with my workbench, shadow board and collection of slightly damp Haynes manuals.
    The old, unloved larchlap now stood empty, unloved and devoid of a reason to live. As I hefted my trusty 14 sledge hammer, I thought about the good times we had been through together, and I’m not afraid to admit that a tear came to my eye.
    Then I laid into it with the hammer, using a wrecking bar to get the door off, and it took me about 3 minutes to reduce it to firewood, which I promptly burnt.
    Does my heartless behaviour make me a callous person? Or am I right to fall in love with a newer, more fungus resistant version of my old love?