Post by thesentientpasty on Nov 1, 2016 10:29:13 GMT
The house I grew up in had a detached, brick, garage. I don't think I ever saw a car in it: it was full of stuff. One end of it had a separate, small shed-like space that was my Dad's radio shack: a haven for bits of wire, strange electronic sounds, the heady smell of solder and hot valves, and a few welcome spiders. Upon returning from work he'd pop out to the shed and Do His Thing: build radios, talk to people around the world, make a big mess, and stuff like that. I'd often join him, draw pictures and chat. It was very much his home from home.
With the benefit of hindsight and a splash of amateur psychology, I think it was, in part, a homage to his father, who'd done well for himself in the Navy as a Radio Officer, patrolling the China Sea in the late 20s in submarines. Officer Fred caught TB - a not-uncommon event given stinky batteries, foul air and the humidity of the Far East. He was invalided out in the early thirties and declared 'PUNS' (permanently unfit for naval service). He died, severely crippled, when my Dad was twelve or thirteen in the early years of the War.
(Pauses for a relight of the pipe and some reflection)
On the Pasty estate we have a metal shed for garden stuff. It has to be metal: our old wooden one had its roof ripped off one night by bad 'uns, who clearly didn't fancy untangling the bike/lawnmower/garden tools conglomeration contained therein, and left me with a roofless wooden box.
But I have plans, for I have reached that stage in life where my lack of a shed is causing me anguish. I build models, and have an array of equipment that needs to be set up. I need a workbench. Good lighting. Plenty of sockets. A fridge. A door I can close and shut the world out. My virtual shed has been redesigned time-and-again, and has reached a point where the only way to lose the non-shed mental trauma is to build the bloody thing. We have the space and - when I can grab some pension dosh at 55, early in 2018, it will become a reality.
In the meantime, I'll enjoy others' sheds and, particularly, wish Lazy's shed a long, productive and happy life: may your cobwebs glint in the sunshine of an early spring morn! God bless all who drink gin in her!
Thank you so much Pasty. And thank you for the tale of your ancestors. I spend happy times alone except for the company of my dog Tipsy and people I am with on the t`interweb in the shed. It is bliss....no loud t.v with yet another episode of Murder she feckin wrote in the background..... Ones own space is vital for your sanity I have found.
I ventured into my dads shed today. a traditional shed in the sense of being where every piece of junk ever, goes to live. and cobwebs. not just any cobwebs, but haunted house style cobwebs. so i'm attempting to release a trowel from its mummification and and face to face - literally- with a beast of a spider.
I don't really mind spiders, even those big English garden ones, but IN MY FACE. And this looked like some exotic creature from the land of bananas. or something.
naturally I ran screaming like a girl from the shed, and googled it. likely it was one of three (three!) types of 'false widow' spider.
I want a second shed for the bent nails and stuff...I originally intended mine to be a workshop but so needed my own space away from loud t.v. (Endless repeats of bargain hunt and murder she wrote....arrgggghhh) So I have my sanctuary shed with comfy cushions and seating, my gin bottle chandelier and stuff friends have given me. It is a sacred space to me. But I would like a workshop....
When the trays and buckets of nuts, bolts, nails, bits of wire, plumbing fittings etc etc overrun the top of the work bench you know that you have a true workshop ..... or a problem! The obvious solution is to build another shop with a bigger work bench, however I have found that somehow those little trays of 'stuff' that you do not want to throw away 'just in case' seem to have a life of their own and multiply when one is not looking. I DO have a purge once in a while but invariably the week after its all sent to the dump I need the little thing at the bottom of the tray that is no longer there! The good thing is that I no longer save the BENT nails......... The hours spent looking for that item you KNOW you have but are not exactly sure in which bucket you saw it are not wasted they are a mechanics time of rest and relaxation .....or perhaps frustration if in a hurry......
I have heard unsubstantiated rumors spread by some strange new communications thing called a BlaceFlook that the Cosmic Shed is being converted into a bunker to shelter from work, politicians, and nuclear fall out. We are told that tin foil hats will be supplied but due to an anticipated severe shortage of Gin refugees wishing to join the host in her hideaway will be required to be clutching bottles of liquor in each hand in order to be permitted to enter. Hidden in the wilds of Hampshire fellow idlers should approach with care as the entrance is guarded by a highly trained postal worker attack dog........