A SHEDDIE’S CHRISTMAS

(WITH APOLOGIES TO CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE)

T’was the night before Xmas and all through the shed Not a spindle was turning, the place was quite dead, The sheddie, retired, was tucked up in bed, While the Minister for Finance snored by his head.

As he slept, he was dreaming of vices he’d known Of lathes and of grinders and powertools he’d owned. The sheddie was frugal, he’d scrimped and he’d scraped, In order to build up his craft to a peak.

But alas he was restless he groaned in his sleep. There was one thing he needed to make it complete. A mill, a great big one with CNC scales,

He knew just the one, he’d seen it in sales.

In the shed all was quite quiet there was barely a whisper. Till the door opened, at first just a whisker.

Some chap dressed in red with a bag on his shoulder Slipped in through the door, like a thief, only bolder.

His bag bulged and grew as he came through the door. He dragged it with effort out onto the floor. He carefully positioned to open the swag,

And dragged out a Bridgeport from deep in the bag.

(What magic is this? That mill weighs a tonne! You can’t simply pull one from out of your bum!)

He shifted it round till it stood in its finery The moonlight shone in and made it all shinery. The light was reflected in the DRO dials and bounced off the table’s silvery rails.

Our sheddie was snoring along with the wife. So, he never noticed the dream of his life, Was presently standing alone in the shed, Installed and set up while he was in bed.

Xmas was here and it wasn’t too long,

Till hordes of his relatives gathered to throng.

While the roast was a’roasting and toasts were a’toasting and old Uncle Cecil was endlessly boasting,

He’d planned to slip off to the shed for respite. Away from the noise and the “trouble and strife”. Hoping no one would notice he went out the back, And down the short path to the front of the shack.

He opened the door and slipped into the shop.

He noticed that something was different and stopped, In the middle of taking a breath, when he saw,

Lit up in a sunbeam miraculously showing, Through the skylight above it, that left the mill glowing.

His eyes did a blink, and he just couldn’t think, If what he was seeing was real or imagined. An enormous machine, all in battleship grey, Was taking up space in the workshop that day.

The sheddie was stunned, he ran to caress it.

He ran his hands over the breadth of the table, And tested the buttons and turned all the levers. He turned on the power, the machine hummed to life, The buttons and lights glowing green, red, and white.

He fitted a collet and fixed in a cutter,

Set up the start point and wound up the turret. He fitted a vice and found some old stock,

And attached it to the table with the aid of a chock.

The machine started purring as he set it to run, The chips began flying, the work had begun.

His heart it was singing as he carved out the block, And radiused the edges and flattened the top.

He became so engrossed he neglected to notice, That hordes of onlookers had gathered to see, What had taken him off from the merry party. They peered in the window open mouthed with surprise, As the sheddie continued to shave off the side.

Then a noise made him jump and his heart gave a pump. The door was flung open and in through the gap,

The Minister for Finance appeared at a gallop,

With her hands on her hips and a glowering look,

She marched up and hit the emergency stop.

The sheddie woke up with a start, in his bed, As visions of mills still danced in his head. But the look from his wife soon sorted him out, “There’s work to be done, they’ll all be here soon I need you to sort out the dining room.”

The sheddie got up in a daze and he wondered,

Was it all just a dream? Could it really be actual? He wanted to slip off to take a small peek,

In the shop, through the window, while no-one was watching, To see if his vision really was factual.

I cannot confirm or deny what he saw there, was real or imagined, nor would I be glib.

Or is the whole story a fiction, a fib?

A means to distract you, your attention to steal? You be judge. Can dreams become real?