Man’s world

Joe Bennett dwells on the changes and challenges wrought by time.

Today I have a woodshed.

Fifty years ago we had a coal bunker. Coal was delivered in sacks by the coalman who tipped it into a hatch at the top. Then we shovelled it out as needed through a hatch in the bottom.

Most of the coal went on to the fire. The rest went into the dog. His name was Rebel and he ate the stuff by the lump. He lived to 15 but boy did he strain at stool.

A coal bunker is a dreary thing except to a hungry dog, but a woodshed oozes promise. A woodshed is where your wicked Uncle Fred traditionally does his wickedness. There’s something nasty, as the saying has it, in the woodshed.

This may have come about by association with woods and woodsmen. Both are traditionally iffy. Woodsmen had axes and proclivities. And in fairy tales woods were dangerous places.

Men went into them trembling, and emerged, if they were lucky, heroes. Girls went into them trembling, and emerged, if they were lucky, married. (I know

I know, but the fairytale tellers hadn’t heard of sexism.)

A woodshed is not to be confused with a potting shed. A potting shed is where wicked Uncle Fred’s gentler younger brother gets away from the world. He doesn’t pot in the potting shed. No-one pots in a potting shed. He smokes his pipe and helps the sun across the sky.

Potting sheds are places of innocence. But I don’t have one. I have a woodshed.

I did not build my woodshed, though to tell the truth the thing is barely built. It is just leant against the hillside and its back wall is weeping clay. Furthermore ivy is investigating the roof and sides in that patient ivy manner. But still, my woodshed does the job and that job is holding wood.

Over the years I have developed a system which you are welcome to adopt for yourself. In summer I put wood into my woodshed. In winter I take it out again and burn it. But if you do adopt the system you’ll discover one small flaw.

At the end of a winter there is always a little wood left over.

In the following summer new wood is piled on top of it. At the end of the next winter there is again a little wood left over. The following summer new wood is piled on top of it. In other words, the wood at the bottom of the pile never gets used. And the wood at the bottom of my pile is now 15 years old.

So this year I’ve decided to change things. I have just spent an hour in the woodshed, not doing an Uncle Fred, but cleaning house. I’ve thrown all the old wood to one side so that I can throw the new wood to the other side and then use the old wood first this winter.

Working down through the layers of old wood had its interests. I found two disused rats’ nests and several bones successfully hidden by dogs who are long since dead. And then, nestling among the lowest logs, I found my first cell phone.

The moment I saw it I remembered losing it. I even remembered its number. The phone looked well preserved.

So I rang the number. Who wouldn’t want to get in touch with their former self? A stranger answered.

Ooooh, woodsheds.