shears

We spent the weekend with my family, stripping out my brother's new house.  It's a red brick terrace, previously occupied by a now elderly lady who bought it and lived in it from new.  In the back yard is a lean-to shed, and inside we found a dusty but carefully laid out workshop, left as last used, with still-shiny nails carefully sorted into coffee jars, spare floorboards and off-cuts stored across the roof joists, old tobacco tins full of things that might come in useful one day and a Morris Minor hubcap. 

Further in, propped or hanging up on the wall, were a selection of careworn gardening tools including a lovely pair of shears, one handle threaded with a length of string for hanging up.  Rusted, they still opened and closed with a lovely movement to reveal silvery, nearly-sharp blades.  Although I received a very generous gift of hand-me-down gardening tools last December, hand shears were still on my wish list, particularly now that the shaped hedges in the back garden are beginning to sprout.  My brother kindly allowed me to take this pair home, now I'm just waiting for the frosts to finish.