Into the Garden

There she was.... No, hang on, it was over there, next to that rather fetching example of a traditional garden shed. Of course, she was fully-armed with all the necessary gear to venture forth into what had - once, in a fit of optimism – been called the garden, but was now suspected to contain several soldiers who were unaware that the war was long over, and rumoured to also contain some creatures that had escaped evolutionary pressures and were not extinct, and - possibly - at least half a dozen tennis balls from next door.

Still, she was prepared to sally forth into the unknown from her base camp just outside the aforementioned shed, which had – over the years – become something of a shrine to the harsh gods of the garden. A place where certain gardening tools were offered up in sacrifice by placing them in the shed, then forgetting about them, possibly in the hope that the garden had evolved itself some breed of elves who delight in horticultural maintenance and who would creep into the shed, avail themselves of the sacrificial tools and do – at least – a spot of pruning and weeding.

However, so far, at least, it looked as though no such breed of creatures yet existed in the dark heart of what was once a lawn.

So, steeling herself and clutching the shears in her gloved hands, she glanced at me, then set off into the garden.

That was three weeks ago, and I still haven't – yet – heard anything from her. If I haven't heard anything in the next couple of weeks I've decided to act and see about getting myself a new wife, or – if the worst comes to the worst – moving house.