The greenhouse effect

At some point, most blokes desire a ‘mancave’… but although I pleaded with my parents, all I got was a ‘man greenhouse’.

The dream of owning a scooter had been burning inside me for years and my parents took a pretty philosophical approach when it came to purchasing one. My elder brother was allowed to have a Yamaha FS1E (aka ‘Fizzy’) when he was 16. So they accepted that I would want something with two wheels when I reached the same age. For me, though, it wasn’t Japan’s answer to getting teenagers on the road… I wanted Italy’s finest, the Lambretta. I was working and bringing in a wage, so as long as I could afford to pay for it myself then there was no problem.

My first purchase was an old LI150 Special Pacemaker. It came from a shop that seemed to be a graveyard for discarded Lambrettas left over from the glory days. It didn’t run, which was hardly surprising as it hadn’t turned a wheel in almost 20 years. It was complete, but perhaps not in the best-looking state, to be honest… it was a real rust bucket. Having taken the bus to the shop it was a free lift home with the Lambretta in the back of their pick-up. There was no charge for delivery, probably because they were celebrating getting rid of another pile of junk, and at the same time, parting a clueless teenager from £35 of his hard-earned wages. Having dropped it off at the bottom of our drive, the old Datsun pick-up sped off into the distance as quickly as it possibly could.

I was now left with the task of getting my new pride and joy round the back of the house – not helped by the fact the tyres which were once round had given up the ghost. Devoid of air for decades, the only option was to drag the thing along, the uphill drive not helping the situation. My battle hadn’t gone unnoticed by my mother, who promptly told me to return “that thing” as she called it, back to the person who had given it to me. When I explained that money had been exchanged she blew her top, ranting on about what my father would say when he found out about it. When he did find out, thankfully it was a simple shrug of the shoulders as he said: “Let him learn about how it works, better than being on the streets at night.”

That was it, I had the official seal of approval and the Lambretta had staved off execution… it was here to stay. And stay it did, on the patio, much to the annoyance of my mother, who thought it lowered the tone. She didn’t know what was coming next either as my Lambretta Empire grew. To her horror, she came back from a shopping trip to find not one but two of the things clogging up the once idyllic outdoor relaxation area. My explanation was simply that I needed another one to make the first one I bought work properly. Somehow she believed me but her newly inherited scrapyard had to go. I was in full agreement, after all, there was only so much rusty metal and oil over the patio slabs one could put up with.

My first solution was to cover them over with a huge sheet of black polythene, anchored down with as many bricks as possible to try and stop the noise of it flapping in the wind. It was only ever a temporary measure just to stave off the inevitable. If it was pissing down then I couldn’t do any work on them, praying for a sunny day which only happened every now and then. Something had to give, and soon – but there seemed no answer to this logistical nightmare. We had a huge shed up the back garden but it was my father’s domain. A keen woodturner, it was his kingdom which no one dare encroach.

I had asked if I could put the Lambrettas in his shed, my mother always standing behind me nodding in agreement. The pleas fell on deaf ears and the situation only worsened. Until one day he had a ‘eureka moment’ and said” “What about the greenhouse?” It was quite big, and waterproof, so began to sound appealing. It had been abandoned for years, just full of plant pots and the discarded remains of some old tomato plants. There was other rubbish in there, mainly memories of our childhood days, which was long overdue a trip to the local tip.

Without hesitation I moved straight in, clearing it out in an instant. Quietly I think my father was glad the place was finally being sorted without him having to do it. Though it was hidden up the top of the garden it had become a bit of an eyesore. Once emptied we bought some plywood and lined it all the way around, sort of like a half shed, half glasshouse. The old potting table was given the same treatment and I now had somewhere to work on my engines. It pleased all parties; my mother got her patio back and my father his shed unscathed. For me, there were a few issues but I learned to live with them. In summer, even on a cool day, the temperature was knocking on to 100 degrees whereas in winter totally the opposite, as its lack of insulation sent the thermometer below zero. When it rained the noise on the glass roof amplified louder. They were small things to put up with, as I could finally work on my Lambrettas in peace. It was my very first man cave, well… ‘man greenhouse’.

I had asked if I could put the Lambrettas in his shed, my mother always standing behind me nodding in agreement. The pleas fell on deaf ears and the situation only worsened.