I'm in bed; I have the kind of restlessness of the sick that enables me to move a little a lot: to tense, release, to shift the pressure slightly on and off my arse. My feet are cold, pulling the heat down from my body.

I can see the shed outside, covered in a creeper and crusted on top with snow. In the summer, when the creeper is in leaf, it blends into the hedge behind. There's something Tolkien about it. I fully expect it to talk to me one of these days. And when it does, I'll say hello back, and with some emphasis on empathy and understanding, I'll add, 'I see you're stuck too.'

I couldn't really imagine the tone of it's voice, but it may say something like,

'Cut this fucking creeper off me when you next get your sorry arse out of bed.'

And I'd have to retort, 'Shed, anyone can see that the creeper is holding you up. If I cut it down, you'll fall to the ground.'

Silence possibly from the shed. Then, in an altogether more contrite tone, 'But I'm choking'

I, as you might expect, would need to give my next response some thought,

'Ah, but only slowly, shed. Besides, better that than a pile of sticks.'

'Sticks might not be so bad' the shed might say, changing tack.

'Give me the attention of dynamite. Polarise or disassemble me. But do not let me choke'

'Shed, shed, shed, shed, shed' I'd say, 'If I cut the creeper and you went away touting for the attention of the avant-garde, then where would I keep my pots and things; the fork, the spade and the pea-netting? Would it help if I wrote the names of all my former boyfriends inside you, or covered you with embroidery?'

But that could well provoke the shed into some furious rage, and might face me with a barrage of abuse on my needlework and handicraft skills. And I'd have to pull the pillow over my head just to get some peace.

Maybe best just to sit here instead, and not engage my shed in conversation after all.