erithacus' saga: unsnagging flaccid skin from bramble thorns

I set about making my residence homely. Privacy was no problem: the garden around the shed had not been tended for years. It was winter and the undergrowth was not rampant enough to obstruct the shed’s only entrance but it was thick enough for intrusion-free toileting (unless would-be snoopers were equipped with infra-red gear or industrial X-ray equipment, a possibility I tended to disregard). I bathed and washed my wardrobe in a dense thicket of Rubus fructicosus and Urtica dioica, sheltered by Sistine chapel-like cupola structure made from a couple of fertiliser bags. This would protect me from blizzards in winter and the biting wind and rain of the hot season. Showers required heating a metal watering can, half-full of water taken from the rain barrel. I would rinse my body with cold water from a large paint can. Sometimes I would treat myself to a shower in a local sports centre in which I managed to sneak using a membership card of a young executive-looking type that I had found in a puddle on the pavement.