Gretchen opened the back door yesterday morning to find a small Everest of jumble outside.

This happens on a fairly regular basis. It arrives under cover of darkness, like the proverbial thief in the night. We presume some human agency is involved, but on the other hand, given the propensity of jumble to take over the place, I’m not completely convinced that it doesn’t actually have a life and slightly sinister personality of its own.

This batch was intriguing … we suspect that it’s an elderly lady’s house clearance … many perfumed scarves, an unopened bottle of moisturizer, dozens of Mills and Boon romances, a few odds and ends of costume jewellery, an untouched painting-by-numbers set, a new lace tablecloth. A quality collection, really.

We have fun with jumble. (I know, I know, it’s a tragic reflection on our tiny lives — but what can I say? — we takes our fun where we finds it.)

Once, a really racey lady’s thong materialized - you know, a triangle of material on a piece of string. Very tasteful/hygienic/comfy (delete whichever does not apply, which is - of course - all of them, and I use the term ‘lady’ very loosely indeed). We put it out on the “Gifts” table at our Christmas Fair and thereafter kept an eagle eye on it. We had a half-formed plan to blackmail whoever bought it.

No-one did.

West Cumbrians are no fun.