F spent a morning stacking paper all over the dining room. After she had shuffled it a bit and put some into a plastic box, she sat on the floor in the small bedroom and pushed the rest, page by page into a whirring box. That seemed to involve some pages stopping halfway, and some bad language, and a screwdriver….
I discovered what she was up to when I investigated the contents of a black plastic rubbish bag she left on the floor. Shredded paper. Bales of it. It’s almost as good as shredded cardboard and there’s more of it.
F wasn’t too impressed when she found me inside the bag digging around in ‘her’ shredded paper.
I was only nest-building (and checking first for nasty surprises).
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