"Brrrrr!" said Uncle Mac, entering the garden-side door and slamming it behind him, "15° on March 24th? In New Jersey? I don't think so. How can we plant 'taties when we can't chip the ground with an axe?"
"15°", said Lacey Delacroix, eyes riveted to the 336th chapter of the prologue of "Violets in Bloom", "would those be Celsius, Kelvin, or Fahrenheit? Because it does make a difference, you know".
"Too damned cold for this time of year, is all I know. Why, when I was a tot we didn't have such things as temperature scales. Either there was no ice on the pond, and it was above freezing or there was ice on the pond and it was below. Colder than that and it was 'cold enough to freeze the balls off a bronze bishop'; colder still and it was 'colder than a wi...' "
The orchard side door edged open and a smallish but very attractive silver haired woman appeared, struggling unaccountably with a cooler. Mallory leaped to her assistance.
"Millie!" said Lacey, "A cooler? In this weather?"
"It's to keep the waffle batter from freezing" replied their violet eyed guest, "waffles loose some of their magic when the batter freezes."
"I'll be right back", said Uncle Mac to a disinterested Shed crew as he removed his gloves and stepped back outside.
"I heard waffles" said Farm Girl, ghosting up from out of nowhere, "Coffee, Mill?"
Millie nodded and commenced to unpack the cooler.
The Ripper, Agnes, Leatherface and Vida G floated in from various interior regions of the shed, drawn to the scent of Millie's waffle batter like Serengeti hyenas to a long dead wildebeest.
"There go my hips again." said a sleepy Vida.
"Still", muttered Farm Girl, none too subtly.
"Ahah!" said Uncle Mac, reappearing via the garden gate. He was holding his hands aloft, like a neurosurgeon freshly scrubbed, "Millicent my sweet! Would you join me in the ammo locker for a moment? I've a few words for your private ear!"
Millie shrugged and the two disappeared into the nearby storeroom.
Whispered phrases punctuated by chuckles, giggles and the rustling of clothing emerged, followed in rapid succession by a bloodcurdling feminine shriek, and a sharp report, much like that which a small bore revolver might produce only somehow, meatier.
Millie and Uncle emerged momentarily, both red faced; Millie with outraged indignation and Uncle with a crimson hand print painted across his right cheek.
"It's true!" observed the Shed's patriarch holding one frosty hand proudly aloft. "It really is colder than a witches tit out there!"
As good a place as any to close on what was after all, a distressing and completely unnecessary scene.
"Erm. Mr. Blog writing person?"
"Where are the pictures? Nobody actually reads this mess, we just come here for the pictures."
"No more pictures! Blogger won't let me post 'em, the posting widget does not work and there seems to be no way to contact anyone about it."
"This is distressing."
"Tell me about it."