Mem­oirs of a MAD­man*

The Peterborough Evening Telegraph - - News -

t is at this time of year that we wit­ness the mar­ried man mi­gra­tion to the other mar­i­tal home - the shed.

once wrote in this col­umn that when I was mar­ried I used to wile away hours down the shed.

A shed is to a man what a hand­bag is to a woman. It’s an in­tensely pri­vate space that con­tains all the es­sen­tials for sur­viv­ing the mod­ern-day world - screws, bits of wood, cre­osote and home brew beer.

In the same way that no de­cent man would ever con­sider delv­ing into a woman’s hand­bag un­in­vited, no rea­son­able woman should dream of set­ting foot in a man’s shed. Ladies, that pad­lock is not there just to keep bur­glars out.

But now you are a MAD­man your shed is rel­e­gated to the func­tion of... well, a shed. It’s a place to hang all the toot that you can’t fit in the un­der stairs cup­board or in the din­ing room (see my pre­vi­ous col­umn on how to turn your din­ing room into a gi­ant store­room).

When you were mar­ried/liv­ing to­gether the shed was a sanc­tu­ary, a per­sonal space, a haven from the cut and thrust of do­mes­tic ding dongs.

the shed ef­fec­tively per­formed a sim­i­lar

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