I did a flea market with Pixie last Sunday and I can assure you that spending the day inside a large shed is not my idea of heaven. Particularly a shed normally used to show sheep. (Show sheep what, I hear you ask? – sorry, can’t tell you).
Actually I'm not sure what my idea of heaven is – probably something including chocolate, marzipan, sunny days, Penelope Cruz, real pork sausages – you get the picture. But I doubt it includes a shed.
Not that I'm decrying the concept of the shed. For many men, they are a haven, a place of respite from the demands of 'her indoors', a tiny kingdom of tools, gadgets and manly paraphernalia. With luck, there'll be a worn easy chair, home to a small colony of mice and a paraffin heater, capable of warmth and asphyxiation in equal measure. In days gone by it would have been the only place under cover where the poor devil could satisfy his passion for Old Shag. So I've no issue with the concept of the shed as a retreat. As a venue for trade I'm less impressed
Now doubtless you are eager to know what's in my shed - yes you are. Don't deny it! First of all I must point out that mine is not a retreat - since I have pretensions to being a bit posh, I have a study for that. While there is an easy chair in the shed, it is only over-wintering, awaiting its opportunity to deteriorate gently on the decking throughout the summer.
Other than the chair there's a petrol mower along with several cans containing substances which may or may not be petrol - I test these by giving the contents a good sniff before use. Always good for either a high or a headache. There's a selection of gardening tools. Many of them were bought at small country auctions and I've no idea what their function is but they look pretty. I'm still short of a good dibber which is not a big problem as I've virtually given up dibbing. There's a pristine axe, bought for me after a visit by my late friend Paul who couldn't imagine a house without one; we got rid of the open fire about a month later. Many people have photos to remember someone by; I've got an unblunt instrument.
An old bookcase carries an assortment of hosepipe attachments that fit no known system, cans and bottles of liquids that will remove the skin from your hand or the lining from your stomach but leave a small insignificant black or green flying insect totally unharmed. Stuck away somewhere is the length of tube that I use to empty the fountain once a year and without which I would be lost. On the back of the door are all the labels from the plants I’ve bought over the years, most of which have now died – a poignant in-memoriam section.
So sheds, care for one today – you know it makes sense.
Now if you’re expecting a picture of a shed, you're going to be disappointed. Instead, here’s a daffodil.
Actually I'm not sure what my idea of heaven is – probably something including chocolate, marzipan, sunny days, Penelope Cruz, real pork sausages – you get the picture. But I doubt it includes a shed.
Not that I'm decrying the concept of the shed. For many men, they are a haven, a place of respite from the demands of 'her indoors', a tiny kingdom of tools, gadgets and manly paraphernalia. With luck, there'll be a worn easy chair, home to a small colony of mice and a paraffin heater, capable of warmth and asphyxiation in equal measure. In days gone by it would have been the only place under cover where the poor devil could satisfy his passion for Old Shag. So I've no issue with the concept of the shed as a retreat. As a venue for trade I'm less impressed
Now doubtless you are eager to know what's in my shed - yes you are. Don't deny it! First of all I must point out that mine is not a retreat - since I have pretensions to being a bit posh, I have a study for that. While there is an easy chair in the shed, it is only over-wintering, awaiting its opportunity to deteriorate gently on the decking throughout the summer.
Other than the chair there's a petrol mower along with several cans containing substances which may or may not be petrol - I test these by giving the contents a good sniff before use. Always good for either a high or a headache. There's a selection of gardening tools. Many of them were bought at small country auctions and I've no idea what their function is but they look pretty. I'm still short of a good dibber which is not a big problem as I've virtually given up dibbing. There's a pristine axe, bought for me after a visit by my late friend Paul who couldn't imagine a house without one; we got rid of the open fire about a month later. Many people have photos to remember someone by; I've got an unblunt instrument.
An old bookcase carries an assortment of hosepipe attachments that fit no known system, cans and bottles of liquids that will remove the skin from your hand or the lining from your stomach but leave a small insignificant black or green flying insect totally unharmed. Stuck away somewhere is the length of tube that I use to empty the fountain once a year and without which I would be lost. On the back of the door are all the labels from the plants I’ve bought over the years, most of which have now died – a poignant in-memoriam section.
So sheds, care for one today – you know it makes sense.
Now if you’re expecting a picture of a shed, you're going to be disappointed. Instead, here’s a daffodil.
2 comments:
Oh lovely jubbly! My daffodils are buried under a foot of snow! Peter sent me an entire book about sheds - quite interesting!
Thanks, Pauline. Ever generous, my friend Peter! I've just noticed we've both posted daffodils - more synchronicity.
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