Tub scrub

I'm a man in all sorts of ways. 

For example, I've fathered two children, which I may have mentioned.  I love sport.  I stand up to pee. Beer's good.  And I sometimes spit when I'm out for a run. 

But I also have significant man failings.

My sense of direction is shockingly bad - a disability more commonly found in womenfolk. I'm not into cars (principally as I'm still not certified to drive one). I'm useless at DIY. I don't own a big dog. And, most notably for the purposes of this rambling, I hate gardening.

It was therefore with a significant degree of trepidation that, on Saturday past, I decided to clear out our garden "shed."  

I say shed but, in reality, it's more of a tub.  However, with the house move still officially subject to contract but most likely only a few weeks away now, it had to be done out of courtesy to our buyers. 

Because, despite the fact that we've lived in our present dwelling since October 2004, I never got round to dealing with the mess left in our tub by its previous custodian. 

The man who lived here before us made out he was being all charitable when he managed to sell me its contents for 40 squids.  But the truth, as it turned out, was that he off-loaded an aging lawnmower and a pile of shit for a rip off price.  And, most cleverly of all, it saved him the trouble of having to clear out his own pig sty. 

In there on Saturday I found a rusty car jack, several no-good-to-anybody gardening implements, half a bag of peat, some broken plant pots, half a dozen empty weed killer receptacles, a smeggy spirit level, an old newspaper, a burst football, a number of random pieces of wood, a bent golf club and a colony of creepy, crawly scaly thingies.  

But, crucially, I completed my man task - before running off screaming in the direction of the shower .

Next on my to do list is clearing out our cellar, a job I've literally saved for a rainy day.