ChatterBank0 min ago
A Tuesday Evening Special Story - Minty's Shed.
47 Answers
A distraction for any of you creatives from the pleasures of the Word Cup:
The shed, Minty’s shed, that grey shed at the bottom of her dog legged garden, a brilliant shape for the locals to practice their wedge play on the Musselburgh quality fairway of her lawns. The shed, the pride, joy and epitome of her garden, the deviant centre for ABers, many who had got to tread on the Mr. Sheen polished step leading up to it.
The back of the garden, behind all the stone cats, cauliflowers, bird-tables and all the rest of the accoutrements that Minty laid out for any criminals, miscreants and the rest of the Kim Jock Eck mobs, such as anneasquith and Wharton to trip over. The ten tons of gravel, a recent addition, the crunch of foot on the Permian sandstone to alert yours truly that her garden was being invaded.
The shed, a veritable tardis, the lawnmower, the edge-strimmer – not used recently evidently, the spade, pick and hoe, all instruments that have sent our heroine to hospital, her pots and bits, the green garden wire, a wheelbarrow all making their home here. However, to the back, the whiplash centre, in the dark, the building appearing to be cavernous and extending way beyond her palatial property.
There, one could just make out a St. Andrews cross on the wall, stocks, cages, whips, paddles and crops, the latex wear of our Châtelaine, even a hosepipe attached to the cold water - and plenty of the sparklies, so many of them in all colours of the rainbow, waiting to be used by Madame Whiplash.
And there, on the beam, ominously, threatening, welcoming, three massive hooks and beneath them, black chains, freshly painted, the links finishing in slave-style, heavy manacles, rusty padlocks ready to be locked, the keys somewhere in her attic along with the general purpose lubricant needed to open them.
No seating, not even a bench, the cold damp of a concrete floor waiting for the victims, the coarse wood floors of an 18thC cutter plying its trade between Senegal and Florida would be more comforting to the victims here.
Above, three rusting plaques tacked to the wall, one with “Bernie” printed on it, the second with “Slappy” and the third, even more corroded than the other two, “tony.”
The manacles were waiting, so was Minty, out on the polished step, one more wipe with her Pledge, waiting for the moment when…….
Please add possible scenarios to continue this…..
The shed, Minty’s shed, that grey shed at the bottom of her dog legged garden, a brilliant shape for the locals to practice their wedge play on the Musselburgh quality fairway of her lawns. The shed, the pride, joy and epitome of her garden, the deviant centre for ABers, many who had got to tread on the Mr. Sheen polished step leading up to it.
The back of the garden, behind all the stone cats, cauliflowers, bird-tables and all the rest of the accoutrements that Minty laid out for any criminals, miscreants and the rest of the Kim Jock Eck mobs, such as anneasquith and Wharton to trip over. The ten tons of gravel, a recent addition, the crunch of foot on the Permian sandstone to alert yours truly that her garden was being invaded.
The shed, a veritable tardis, the lawnmower, the edge-strimmer – not used recently evidently, the spade, pick and hoe, all instruments that have sent our heroine to hospital, her pots and bits, the green garden wire, a wheelbarrow all making their home here. However, to the back, the whiplash centre, in the dark, the building appearing to be cavernous and extending way beyond her palatial property.
There, one could just make out a St. Andrews cross on the wall, stocks, cages, whips, paddles and crops, the latex wear of our Châtelaine, even a hosepipe attached to the cold water - and plenty of the sparklies, so many of them in all colours of the rainbow, waiting to be used by Madame Whiplash.
And there, on the beam, ominously, threatening, welcoming, three massive hooks and beneath them, black chains, freshly painted, the links finishing in slave-style, heavy manacles, rusty padlocks ready to be locked, the keys somewhere in her attic along with the general purpose lubricant needed to open them.
No seating, not even a bench, the cold damp of a concrete floor waiting for the victims, the coarse wood floors of an 18thC cutter plying its trade between Senegal and Florida would be more comforting to the victims here.
Above, three rusting plaques tacked to the wall, one with “Bernie” printed on it, the second with “Slappy” and the third, even more corroded than the other two, “tony.”
The manacles were waiting, so was Minty, out on the polished step, one more wipe with her Pledge, waiting for the moment when…….
Please add possible scenarios to continue this…..
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The moans erupted from the deepest depths of the chamber... not your fun, fun, fun type of sound, but a calling from the deepest of sorrows of a broken soul as the B&Q delivery truck driver realised his fate was sealed. He was destined to remain forever more within the clutches of the tyrant of the gravel pits herself... 'Mistress Minty'.
The days grew ever longer and with manacles clutching and rubbing at his wrists he dreaded each dawn as he knew the torture would begin again in earnest with the rising of the sun.... with each new day, came more 'Broon' on the bacon sarnie!!!!! He couldn't stand it any longer and decided to hatch a plan for his escape, desperate as he was now to avoid the taste of HP in all it's horrific glory!
A bead of sweat trickled down his face and dropped to the floor with a crash - his hearing had become so sensitive since the saga had begun.
If Only, he whispered to no-one in particular, If Only I had picked the next ticket or delivered the 10 tons of gravel to the right house, none of this would have happened!
As he was thinking, a beetle scurried across the floor and skittered over to the door of the ever imposing shed. The door was ajar... and moving... someone was coming in! The B&Q man held his breath and watched as who should enter? Walking through the doorway on tip-toe, in came......
The days grew ever longer and with manacles clutching and rubbing at his wrists he dreaded each dawn as he knew the torture would begin again in earnest with the rising of the sun.... with each new day, came more 'Broon' on the bacon sarnie!!!!! He couldn't stand it any longer and decided to hatch a plan for his escape, desperate as he was now to avoid the taste of HP in all it's horrific glory!
A bead of sweat trickled down his face and dropped to the floor with a crash - his hearing had become so sensitive since the saga had begun.
If Only, he whispered to no-one in particular, If Only I had picked the next ticket or delivered the 10 tons of gravel to the right house, none of this would have happened!
As he was thinking, a beetle scurried across the floor and skittered over to the door of the ever imposing shed. The door was ajar... and moving... someone was coming in! The B&Q man held his breath and watched as who should enter? Walking through the doorway on tip-toe, in came......
Tony av "oi you knob you unloaded your gravel on top of my car" taken aback with this mr b&q slipped over and went head first into a bucket of manure!!
"ha-ha said Tony i said you were a sh1thead" well all of a sudden minty came in wielding a chopper it was Bernie's there was a trail of blood leading to the naughty step where he laid in a pool of blood!!
with that Tony screamed "what have you done minty" and then........
"ha-ha said Tony i said you were a sh1thead" well all of a sudden minty came in wielding a chopper it was Bernie's there was a trail of blood leading to the naughty step where he laid in a pool of blood!!
with that Tony screamed "what have you done minty" and then........
(i) in came boaty, "I'm a bit disorientated this morning, is this the Tudor Arms - make mine a 'Spotty Gloucester' and I'll go for one of those bacon bappy things, especially if it's my bread."
Turning to the heaving wreck on the floor, "What are you doing here, welshie, I thought you worked for someone else, not Builders and Queenies?"
Welshie thought and......
(ii) 'How the feck did you get here, bernie? See you have had one of Minty's close barber shaves, second only to those that mrs o renders." bernie, rubs his remaining stubble, minty having taken off his pubes and half his scalp, and........
Turning to the heaving wreck on the floor, "What are you doing here, welshie, I thought you worked for someone else, not Builders and Queenies?"
Welshie thought and......
(ii) 'How the feck did you get here, bernie? See you have had one of Minty's close barber shaves, second only to those that mrs o renders." bernie, rubs his remaining stubble, minty having taken off his pubes and half his scalp, and........
...and then a telephone directory flew out of nowhere and hit poor Bernie on the head... 'Blimey' he said clutching his temple and wincing 'I knew minty liked a bit of S&M role play, but that was by the book!'
A sniggering came from across the lawn, as behind the hedge a rustle came and who should appear o'er the top of the privet but...
A sniggering came from across the lawn, as behind the hedge a rustle came and who should appear o'er the top of the privet but...
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