Living as we do on a busy thoroughfare in a small town, we are quite used to finding things in our front garden which we haven't put there ourselves. Beer cans, bottles, plastic bags and the little bits of cellophane from the top of cigarette packets make up the standard detritus emanating from those returning home from a night out on the town. Our long garden path is also home to a plethora of gastropodular visitors, providing unwelcome scrunching and squelching underfoot when returning home on a dark, damp night.

I have lost count of the number of times I have walked through a spider web on my way out of the house in the morning, prompting a live performance of the "oh-my-god-I've-got-spider-web-on-my-face" dance for the delectation of passers-by (imagine frantic running on the spot, flailing hands clawing at face and hair and eyes scrunched shut). Countless too are the number of times my clothes have been dampened by the drooping hydrangea flowers, heavy with rain, which flank the path. A veritable obstacle course, is our garden.

As used as we are to its little surprises, I was still curious to see the latest addition to the garden, which appeared a few days ago. Upside-down in the heather, looking a bit sorry for itself, was none other than this.




A small (child-size) wooden chair. A little weather-beaten, but solid and of sound construction. I took it under my (bingo) wing and escorted it into the house.

Guided by my old, saggy cloth cat, and with the help of his friends (including a carved wooden bookend in the shape of a woodpecker), I intend to restore the chair to its former glory and display it in my bay window, in the hope that someone will come and recognise their chair and it can return from whence it came.

*blinks dreamily*