Hill of beans

Empty vessels need to be filled.  

A too sharp sun shows up the spider webs and the open windows make the cobs dance. I promise the arachnids a second home and move them on with a duster that looks like Boris Jonson's head. 

I get it into my own head that the kitchen should be transformed by gin time, but the mill has other ways of seeing things, which means we wrangle for a few hours and break a thousand eggs to make an omelette for two.
I dragged a condemned cupboard upstairs and painted the brick walls white. 
I swept the last of Christmas into a small pile of hearts, stones and dog hairs and sat down with my gin.