There's not Mushroom in here?

I'm not renowned for being the most particular of house-keepers. I spend much of my time at or travelling to or from work, I'm involved in a few community-type organisations, and I have an exclusive contract to provide a personal, responsive chauffeur service to my son. The fact that I would still be a slovenly slut even if I had all the time in the world at home, is neither here nor there.

I usually try and tidy up at a weekend, unless I can find something more interesting to do, and now that Jack's social life is accelerating in direct correlation to the demise of my own, I often have a reasonably willing but barely able helper ( he's the only person I know who can precision hoover around crumbs and considers anything more complex than a mug and plate to be too much of a challenge to wash).

He'd run out of hair gel ( he has a tube-a-week habit to support) and wanted a lift into town this afternoon to watch some of his mates performing in Church Square so he actually got the Marigolds out without being asked,reminded, prompted a third time and eventually yelled at, hoping to extort a few extra quid out of me and speed up the time it took for me to be ready to leave the house.

I wandered into The Shed to check on the tomato plants whilst chatting to Rachel on the phone ( Rachel has an immaculate house where even the understatedly, contrastingly-coloured cobwebs are perfectly-perpendicular to the walls). It's usually dark when I go into The Shed, and I tend to use Granny's old standard lamp to read by, so rarely put the overhead lights or the halogen spots on.

That must be why I hadn't noticed THIS ............



It's growing up between the laminate floor and the door into the garage. I called my Dad to come and get rid of it. And then promptly ordered Jack to stand down from sink duty, fetch his jacket and rendez-vous at the car at the double. What I can't see, I won't worry about all day.