If anyone ever writes a history book about this garden, I expect a full chapter dedicated to me—the shed. I’ve held it all: tools, forgotten paint tins, a Christmas reindeer with no antlers, and that one box no one opens because everyone’s too scared to check if something inside is alive. I was happy in my dusty glory… until the humans decided it was “time for a change.”
It started when they stepped outside, stared at the patio like it had personally betrayed them, and muttered something about dirt “winning the war.” Then came the phrase that signalled doom: pressure washing birmingham. Before I knew it, water jets were blasting everything in sight with the enthusiasm of a toddler with a hosepipe.
But that was just the beginning. No surface was spared. They didn’t want a clean patio. They wanted full-scale redemption. Suddenly the words exterior cleaning birmingham were being spoken with the same seriousness as emergency evacuation instructions. I felt my wooden panels tense. My cobweb residents packed their tiny bags.
The patio was first. In came patio cleaning birmingham, and the slabs went from “ancient ruins” to “wedding reception ready” in under an hour. I had to squint. I’d forgotten the patio was a lighter colour than despair.
Then came the driveway. I’ve watched that driveway age like a banana in the sun—oil leaks, wheel marks, and whatever that sticky purple stain was from 2017. But once driveway cleaning bimringham entered the chat, every stain vanished faster than the neighbour who “borrowed” the ladder and never returned it.
Just when I thought it was over, someone looked UP. The roof. The legendary stronghold of algae, moss kingdoms, and one extremely judgmental pigeon. The humans muttered the final spell: roof cleaning birmingham, and suddenly, ladders appeared like they were growing out of the earth. The roof tiles are now so clean they could blind satellites.
As for me? I watched it all happen. The before-and-after glow-up. The humans taking proud photos like they’d conquered nature itself. The cat, disgusted that the patio now smells like lemon detergent instead of dirt.
And just when I thought I’d escaped the chaos—
they turned to me.
The shed.
Their trusted storage warrior.
They opened my door, gasped dramatically, and uttered the eight cursed words:
“We should probably clean inside here too, right?”
No. No we should not. I’m not dirty. I’m historically textured.
But I know what’s coming.
Soon I’ll be swept, emptied, reorganised, labelled, and forced to give up my mysterious cobweb ambience. I will look respectable.
And honestly?
I’m terrified.
So, if anyone finds a half-rusted paintbrush, a single roller skate, or a bag of screws that fit nothing—
please remember me.
I was once chaotic, cluttered, and free.
If they paint me pastel, though?
I’m collapsing. On purpose.