I came home this evening and fell into a cliché, we both did.  I spent a little time cuddling and chatting with (not sensible chat) the little man. Then I dressed for rough work and went to the garage and the woodshed.  I had a few wee things to sort out there, mainly the mess. Over the past few weeks we have contributed to society by putting some of the elderly to hard labour (grannies and grandpas).  This has amassed a collection of black bags of garden waste.  I stopped counting after over thirty black backs and a large tonne bag of bits of hedges.  Thankfully the bag can hold a tonne of gravel but the hedge trimmings only amounted to no more than a few tens of kilograms.

After loading up my car and a trailer with as much as I could pack in, I decided to take an old long chain and shorten it.  I wanted to make a short safety chain for the trailer hitch and I wanted to play with power tools.  I dusted off the old angle grinder and went to work. The last time I used the angle grinder must have been over half a year ago.  I remember using it to cut a flag stone down to a size that would fit in the oven.  This needs some explaining.  To make a loaf of bread it is best to have an oven as hot as possible.  I usually turn the oven control until it stops and can go no further.  However, you can cheat a little by using an oven stone.  This is a stone that retains heat in the oven, it takes longer to heat up but radiates more back into the food.  Oven stones can be purchased for about a score of pounds.  To me this is unacceptable when I consider that it is just a bit of stone.  So instead I got a bit of flag stone and cut it down to size.  I did not just lift any bit of flag that had been sitting around the garden for years.  No, I went out and purchased a new flag stone for under a pound.  As it was new it meant that it had been sitting around in someone else’s yard for years.  The lovely Sharon hates the oven stone.  She sees the logic in it but hates the way it gets in the way of her apple pies and roasted vegetables.  Sometimes I come home and find my bespoke oven stone lying forlorn at the back step.

Although I spent the evening in the garage I was not the only one to conform to gender roles.  I was frequently interrupted by the lovely Sharon.  We intend to head for the hills soon and she has not graced the mountains with her boots for nearly a year.  Tonight she dug out her old walking clothes and kit and tried it all on.  At random intervals between hauling black bags, tidying and grinding, she would barge into the garage demanding to know if her she “looked big in these trousers” or “What about these ones?”, “And these, what do I look like in these?”