The Nettle Man; a strange romance

I was meant to attend the Beltane Festival at Butser Iron Age farm, but it never happened, though it caused plenty of inconvenience all around (my particular apologies to the gallant theoclarke for his generosity and prompt kindness) Fortunately, you can take the witch out of the fire but you can't take the fire out of the witch. Chums of the broomstick persuasion promised that they would visit me next day at my new lurklair in Hither Green, bringing miniature wicker men made of bound hay and straw to burn in the beautiful grove at the bottom of the garden.

The idea was that we would write little notes describing negative emotions/situations we wanted to get rid of, pin said notes to the wicker men, and immolate them. It is this aspect of witchery that I so enjoy, childish, artistic, a little sinister. My childhood landscape owes as much to Saki as to Narnia. I didn't like dolls but would never dream of harming one nor even cutting its hair; I didn't like them, they didn't like me, I would go to my books and they would sit pristine and untouched in a corner. Making my own would be different, I decided. I had a morning to create myself a wicker man and had neither wicker nor clue. But I had an awful lot of nettles.

Nettles are wonderful things really. Great tea, great hair conditioner, and for my literary soul, just perfect for the carrier of my sorrows cos of course they sting.

( The Nettle Man )