OH and I chopped through a massive amount of conifer wood this weekend and managed to bring the two huge heaps right down to just a smallish pile down the back by the pear tree. OH operated the chainsaw and I the zombie axe and the log grenade plus mallet. We did give them all names at some point -- the axe, I think, was called Betty and the log grenade is Little Bertha and the mallet Big Bertha. Chopping through a cubic metre or more of conifer logs in one afternoon, and then stacking them in the woodstore, made me feel mellow and relaxed, at least for a while, until I realised I could no longer ignore the distinct smell of decomposition wafting around the far back of our garden so OH and I had to go hunt for the source for the next 2 hours. We couldn't find anything but suspect something died right underneath one of the sheds. It can't be a drowned cat or pigeon in the water butts because we checked for that.
"Great!" I said to OH as we sat on our folding chairs during a chopping break drinking fizzy pop and eating chocolate, "not only can we write off the patio in damp weather thanks to the everpresent stench of cat shit, we can now also forget about the back bit because something died there. What is this house trying to tell me?"
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