Our shed anniversary

OUR shed was falling down, it had been tilting for a while and it wasn’t waterproof anymore. It was becoming harder to close the door; the frame seemed to be moving up, while the door stayed where it was. In order to bolt the door, I would have to lift it, using one of my feet to pull it up, while using both hands to force the bolt across.

Then one day I noticed there was a hole in the wall next to the door, which was now open permanently. Three or four wooden slates had fallen out, I tried to put them back in, but the rotten paper-thin wood couldn’t hold the tiny rusty nails any more. So I left them aside for mending, figuring I’d hire a carpenter friend to weave his magic wand at it.

There was also a hole in the roof where the rain got in, it was a great concern; we had stuff in there that needed protection from the weather. A full size piano accordion that I never play, two expensive bicycles that we haven’t ridden for over twenty years, a couple of digital recording machines that are out of date and unusable, a trumpet that I can’t play any more, a lawn mower that we never use, an electric hedge cutter that doesn’t work since I severed the wire for the umpteenth time, near-empty paint cans that promise they might be useful one day, and the cat’s carrier, for when he travels to Castelbridge to stay with Anne and Ian, while we are in New York. We had hoped to do something about the shed before heading back to New York last February, but we just couldn’t pull it off.

So Clare bought some tarpaulin in that place where you go to buy a loaf of bread and end up with an electric drill as well. I wrapped it around the front half of the shed and battened it down for the winter.

On the back and front I weighted it down with huge rocks, and on the longer piece by the wall I put a piece of concrete slab that was hanging around. God knows where the slab came from; it had been living behind the shed for as long as I can remember. Perfect for the job, it weighed a bloody ton; I had to walk like a crab to carry it over with both hands.

So there it was, all ship shape. When I was done, it was knotted and tied like a boat ready for the high winds blowing up from the River.

Six months later, upon returning from New York, the tarpaulin was still in position, it held well. I ripped it off to see how things were, it seemed not too bad, until I heard Clare call my name from the top of the garden. ‘C’mere and look at the shed from here.’ It was hilarious, looking like something from the Beverly Hillbillys. The left front wall was almost gone, and the bottom had rotted so much on one side that it was caving in, it keeled like it was about to collapse.

I took a photo for Facebook, and was deluged with people whose sheds were in the same position, some even worse, but they all looked exactly the same. The little windows on the side, the slatted wood, the falling down door, the green felt roof. They had all been bought about twenty years ago from the same place, now they were all falling down together.

Now where will we put the things we don’t use

I was deluged with people whose sheds were in the same position. They had all been bought about twenty years ago from the same place, now they were all falling down together