walking over my grave.

You say Shedim, I say tomato. You say spirits, I say rakia.

More than fifty years ago, a kid in my class at school in Leeds told me that he used to go shedding. I had no idea what he meant so I asked him to explain. He said it was what happened when people were too young to be expected by their parents to do full-on house burglaries, so instead they’d break into garden sheds to steal expensive lawnmowers, bicycles etc. It was a more lucrative alternative to doing an evening paper round.

About thirty years ago I was invited to a barbecue in Cirencester. It was at the home of two people who had top jobs at National Power in Swindon. I didn’t really like them but everybody I knew was going as it was looked upon as a bit of a team building event (ugh!). Towards the end of the evening I complimented the female member of the host couple on their fine big house and beautiful garden. She thanked me and told me it was perfect location for shedding. I had no idea what she meant so I asked her to explain. She said it was what happened when middle aged couples held dinner parties and a man from one couple and a woman from another couple might want to do intimate things together so they’d go off to the posh shed at the bottom of the garden.

Since then I’ve often wondered if my friend from Leeds ever bumped into my friends in Cirencester in the course of his work.

For me, shedding is what I do to friends when I’ve decided that I don’t really like them.

Yesterday morning I found 247 wasps in my shed.