The first load of seasoned ash logs for winter burning are here, neatly stacked against the back fence in a twenty four foot line.
There is a certain aesthetic pleasure in stacking them and the boss is beginning to wonder if I am a closet sufferer of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
I just say it's like an Andy Goldsworthy sculpture but when I think about it I do like a tidy shed, grass cut and edged, raked soil, trout flies neat and lined up in their box, socks folded and everything squared away.
Perhaps I should get some tattoos like David Beckham then?
I've just been given the look.