Halfway between the house and the coastline was a Potting Shed with floats, barnacle pots,  deckchairs and hanks of raffia. A mahogany patio cantilevered out from the slope,  with a fine view of the abandoned ferry dock,  was an encouragement for Frobisher in particular, to sun herself in the afternoon unobserved by coastal traffic. A small library of Leibnitz travelling editions on a plank at head height ensured the absence of intellectual guilt when taking the sun.  A large analog clock nailed to a biscuit tin kept us to deadlines, although its batteries had been exhausted many years before.

We had long intended to keep bottles of preserved fruit in the Potting Shed, but a miscreant came ashore last September from a well appointed yacht, and all our plums went missing. Local mythology insisted that "Lord Salisbury" , as the Potting Shed was called, had been supplied for the use of the First Entrepreneur when his good lady wife had locked the front door to his wayward cavortings with chorus girls, boys and minstrels from the Pier.