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I was digging in my garden when I was rudely interrupted by a voice asking me what I thought I was doing.
I looked around thinking it was my nosey neighbour kidding around again. But no one was in sight, and I thought I must be hearing things.
So, I sunk my shovel once again into the ground only to encounter a more strident voice repeating the earlier request.
I looked down and there standing against my shovel was the tiniest man. At least I thought it was a man. It did have trousers on.
I stood there providing the situation with my best gormless face and focused on the little man.
“People live here,” he said, “do you know you are disturbing our lives by digging as you are?”
“Who are you?” I asked wondering if I was dreaming.
“Silas Missage,” replied the man, “head fairy and custodian of the fire patch.”
“Fire patch? There’s a fire patch?”
“Of course, every self-respecting garden fairy cultivates and respects his fire patch.”
“I don’t understand,” I said sounding more and more incredulous.
“Garden fairies love what you folk rudely refer to as ‘fire weed’. To us, it is nature’s beauty all rolled into one single plant. It provides us with sustenance, fuel and most importantly firewood in the colder months. So, I would humbly request you cease digging the plants up.”
“Oh, I see and if I don’t?”
“You don’t want to go there. We can get very cross.”
“Really? But this is my garden.”
“No, it isn’t.” With that my shovel turned into child’s plastic shovel, the sort you’d use at the beach.
“As I was saying,” said the small man, this is our patch, and I’d appreciate it if you buggered off and found something useful to do elsewhere.”
The little fairy had made his point, and I wondered if my yard had in recent times become possessed as I’d had a similar experience when I tried to move the wood heap.