‘IN SPLENDID ISOLATION’ COLUMN

TIM Davey and his wife Sue are in their fifth week of self-isolation…

... which is how I came to re-discover the grossly underused sanctuary that is our garden shed

THIS social isolation lark is beginning to have a profound effect on my nocturnal behaviour. I find myself wide awake at some ludicrous hour like 3am and deep asleep at 9am. And am I alone in having to give myself a mental jolt to remind myself exactly what day of the week it is as I drag myself out of bed?

So I decided that as much continuous activity as possible is necessary to try to get my body clock in alignment with British Summer Time. A list of specific daily tasks for the duration was my chosen solution. Which is how I came to re-discover the grossly underused sanctuary that is our garden shed.

It’s a decent size and even boasts a little window box for a floral display which could give it more the character of a Wendy House for adults.

The window box is, however, a forlorn structural addition containing nothing more than some broken clothes pegs and, of late, an accumulation of bird droppings courtesy of the cheeky, chirpy, robin whose territory it is.

Anyway, I can actually step inside and move around the shed at the moment because the table tennis table which usually hogs a vast amount of space there during the winter months, is now residing centre stage in the garden.

Amid the vast clutter within are all the usual under-used suspects – cordless strimmer, cordless hedge cutter, cordless saw, cordless power washer. They’re wonderful gadgets. So long as you can lay your hands on either their battery or the charger. One or other is always missing.

Then there’s the rotavator, a generous gift from me to my green-fingered wife, who has used it just once. She has every right to be cautious. When it was powered up it proceeded to not only finely till the earth but also pull her along behind like a flailing competitor in some gardening slalom competition.

There’s a mower, of course, but forget anything involving immaculate lined lawns and neatly crimped edges. My wife Sue is an avid enthusiast of the informal English garden which means all that prissy nonsense is not allowed, so the mower never gets to properly earn its stripes.

Anyway, there I was progressing neatly with this shed tidy up when I came across a forgotten accessory purchased during an absolute scorcher of a heatwave in West Wales a couple of years back. It’s one of those folding armchairs complete with a drinks holder, an impulse buy so I could sit down comfortably on the sand rather than stretch out on a towel.

Although the Welsh weather was glorious, the folding chair was not. Come the hour when we decided to head home I couldn’t get out of it. As I pushed on its arms to lever myself out, it just sank further down into the sand. Eventually, just before I became an end of the pier show for all around me, my wife came to the rescue by pushing it over so I tumbled out. I have never used it since.

Now here it was, rediscovered and I couldn’t resist the temptation to unfold it, sit back and survey my new Kingdom of the Shed. This was a good place to be, I reasoned. Sneak down here on the pretence of doing something useful, read, snooze, have a beer. How good would that be – and who then cares what day of the week it is?

But as soon as I slumped into the seat I had a rude awakening. It started to give way. Visions of that Welsh beach came flashing back. This time, though, I managed to extricate myself a little more discreetly. It’s definitely going to the tip now.

If only it was open, that is.