Continuing my theme of digging, I feel I ought to come straight out and own up to my Time Team fascination. Again, it’s one more step on my quest for middle age – although the day I leave the TV on to catch Songs of Praise is the day I actively ballot for legalising euthanasia. However, little known to my girlfriend, the real reason I took part in digging the garden was to find remnants of some ancient Beaker tribe, or maybe a shard of Amphora.
As you can probably guess, I didn’t find one bit. Funnily enough, what I did find was the chargrilled remains of a bed. Springs, screws, nails – even an enormous steel bar rested in my vegetable-plot-to-be. Of course, I duly noted each find in meticulous detail and mocked up the site into a 3D diagram. (I did look into hiring the GeoPhys folk to do further research, but apparently the cost would outweigh the benefits. I also only had three hours to do the digging before my arms fell off.)
So I know from surveying the finds and placing them in context, that someone once burnt a bed in my garden. They probably chopped it up, placed some scrumpled newspaper underneath and set it on fire. I could repeat that last sentence in my country accent, if you like, just to make it sound more authentic. But why exactly did someone burn a bed?
I like to think the bed-burner had trouble sleeping and couldn’t take it anymore. Because one thing I know is that he (it must have been a he as a girl wouldn’t have taken part in such a stupidly thoughtless task in such a stupid place) really couldn’t have picked a worse place to leave the bits of an old bed. And I know my carrots are bound to grow all bendy due to the task of avoiding nails. Thankyou Mr Bed Burner.