Against the fence, in a very sunny spot, is a small house with a metal frame, a plastic cover, and shelves inside. It’s mine of course – for sunbathing in – but F will insist on cluttering it up with black trays full of dirt and small plants.
I lie on them. It’s more comfortable than the wire mesh shelves by themselves.
Sometimes F zips the plastic door shut so I have had to resort to opening the house down the seam on one corner. F taped it shut; I tore the tape.
It’s a war of attrition. I’m going to win this one; she’s in London during the week.
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