Memoirs of a MADman*
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