Ed The Shed

I went out into the garden because it’s outside. I’ve never tried going in to find the garden. I suppose I could if I was already outside.

I had the shed keys with me. My plan was to get the yard broom out. The recent windy weather had scattered leaf debris all over the place.

—Yer posh git! Leaf debris? Just leaves would ‘ave done the job.

I looked around.

—It’s me, yer pillock, Ed The Shed.

—So, you’re a talking shed?

—No. I’m a bloody talking dustbin. What d’yer think?

—No need to be sarcastic. I didn’t know I had a talking shed.

—No, and yer don’t know ‘ow to call things their name without gettin’ all bloody posh about it.

I opened up the shed door.

—Mind me varnish, yer pillock!

—Yeah, sorry, Ed, I muttered.

I reached in and lifted the yard broom off its hook on the wall of the shed. Or Ed, I suppose I should say.

—I’ll tell thee what, it’s proper bloody nesh out ‘ere today in’t it?

—Aye happen it is— Sorry, it’s catching, I meant, yeah it is.

—Bugger me, yer nearly spoke proper then, like.

I started sweeping up the leaves. There were loads. I swept them into a pile.

—Yer missed a few.

—I’ll get ‘em in a minute.

—Blimey! Is yer name Arthur?

—No, it’s Andy, you know that.

—Are yer sure? Bloody half a job.

—Eh?

—D’yer get it? Arthur? Half a job, see?

—Yeah, very good. Very witty.

The sky had turned the colour of a dirty slate. And the wind picked up. I had to be quick scooping the leave up. Otherwise, they’d have blown all over the garden again.

—Aw bugger! It’s gonna piss it down.

—Yep, looks like it.

—Yer should ‘ave repaired me roof. I’ve got a loose shingle—

—Don’t tell everyone, they’ll all want one.

—Wha’?

—It was a little joke, Ed.

—Oh, aye. That’s it, get all bloody clever. I’m a shed. I’m don’t get jokes.

—You did one yourself earlier.

—No I didn’t!

—You did, the “Arthur Job” joke, remember?

—Oh aye, so I did. It’s the cold getting into me timbers, it is.

I put the broom back in the shed—

—Rude!

—What now?

—I’ve got a name yer know!

—Ah yes, sorry…

I put the broom away in Ed The shed.

—Aye, better. Ey up, Andy?

—Yes?

—That bloody mower o’ yours?

—Yes? What about it?

—It’s half knackered and stinks of wet grass.

—It’ll dry out.

—Not before the fumes have choked me.

I pulled the mower out and cleaned all the grass out it. Ed was right, it was smelly.

—See, I told yer!

—Yes, Ed.

I had one last glance around the garden. More leaves had appeared. I sighed like a deflating balloon. But ignored them.

Then Ed recited a limerick:

There once was a shed called Ed
Who never got to sleep in a bed
He had damp in his walls
And dust in his eyeballs
And rain filled him with dread.