One Man and His Shed.
I needed to open a can of treacle today. Mr G was off in the middle distance, roaring up and down the field on his tractor; the man who cut the hay had had a wobble mid field, and the resulting bend in his perfect tram lines offended him bitterly. No chance of attracting his attention in the midst of such an important task. I ventured into the inner sanctum, the atelier, Mr G’s version of ‘the shed’; alone, unescorted, free to roam; usually I am headed off to safer pastures at the first sound of my footfall.
The first thing to note is that the shed is precisely the same size as our house, indeed, it sits directly underneath our house. Some 8 metres by 15 metres. Or to put this tactfully from a more feminine point of view, we could double the size of the bloody house were Mr G to relinquish his shed. I might suggest it to him. Quietly. On a good day.
It is a most salubrious environment. It’s got pictures on the wall and everything. Sailing ships, Racing cars, and those ghastly Fairy pictures I won’t have in the house.
Cool, even in the present 35 degree heat. Cooled, I might add, by a most desirable asset, a glass floor over the mill stream, whence you can gaze in wonder at the sight of several gallons of water pouring out of the mill stream and tumbling over the rocks to rejoin the river. I have often found Mr G and his male friends standing companionably, stroking their chins in contemplation at this wonder of gravity, as they discussed important matters of state like whether a 35mm or 25 mm pozi-drive screw would be the correct fixing.
Not that it would be cold in the winter, for I note three radiators – one I recognise from the house before last, another, no couldn’t be – from the house in England? Surely it didn’t move house with us, must have done I suppose. It sits under a window with a perfect view of the river; a purpose made bench on top holds a model boat, a wondrous metre long confection with, so I am told, 3,000 hand made copper plates on its hull – but then again, would be perfect for a computer on a winters morn, warm, cosy, inspirational, just the place to write whilst waiting for the bread to rise…
Unlike our kitchen, it has a perfectly tiled floor, easy to keep clean I told myself as I wandered around in search of the paint can opening wotsit. Spacious cupboards, that I recognised as being the wardrobes fitted in a previous house when we bought it (there’s a thing, I had no idea they had travelled with us!) line one end, keeping a vast array of power tools with perfectly coiled leads, free of dust. The doors glide effortlessly, oiled to perfection, one hand is all that is required to view the interior. Floor to ceiling shelving inside, just right for an array of bottled fruit, and all the china, presently stored in the garage. Wasted on some 30 odd items of Black and Decker drill sideways/up/down/in your ladies bedchamber….at the bottom, neatly stacked, stood a pile of rags – why I do declare, that is a piece of the duvet cover I threw out five years ago, and there, a piece of my aunt’s tablecloth, and look, the t-shirt I said I’d shoot him in if I ever caught him wearing it again. All neatly cut up. All neatly stacked up. Unlike the clothes I pick up from the bathroom floor every day.
To the right are stacks of drawers. Beautifully made wooden drawers, with brass handles (do I recognise those handles from Uncle Dave’s old chest of drawers? I’m sure I do) each one configured to precisely fit the tools inside. Sub divided, so that nothing ever gets muddled up. Two inches high for the spanners, 3 inches for the collection of hammers, another holds paint brushes in every size and shape, immaculately cleaned, spun, and lovingly put away. Still no paint can opener, but what a place to store your kitchen equipment! Why you could keep a mountain of kitchen gadgets in those drawers.
Then long wooden counters ( no wonder we spend so much money in the wood shop!) that hold a magical array of router bits, bits with the curve on top then a corner, some with the corner first, then a wavy bit, hundreds of them, each one sunk into its own purpose made hole. You could have the bread maker there, and the Magimix next to it, and still have tons of space to roll out pastry. You wouldn’t even have to put the toaster away every day, it could just sit there, sulking, in case you needed it. And look! Shelves above the counter, with slotted racks to hold chisels, dozens of them, all perfectly sharp, all facing the same way, big ones on the left, small to the right…why a girl could just move her wooden spoons and her potato masher into place without changing a thing!
Aha, a cupboard, what have we here? Hundreds of tins, square Oxo tins, oblong Old Holborn tins, round 50 Players cigarette tins, Tate and Lyle syrup tins (he must have been retrieving them from the bin for years) – screws, tin tacks, rose headed nails, more screws, washers, widgets, wing nuts, wotsits, and more wotsits, no paint can opener. Wooden boxes, large, small, in between, ancient; brass handles, old door locks, keys, Jesus wept, must be the keys to every house we ever had! Hinges, brass; hinges, iron; hinges, leather; – who uses leather hinges these days?
Plastic finger plates from the house before last, (why ever didn’t he throw them away?) rolls of electric wire, more wire, connectors for my computer, plugs, bit of plugs, more bits of plugs, old seed trays filled with more wire, washing machine connectors, a car jack, starter leads, tow rope, half a lawn mower – hang on, we ditched that lawnmower in England ten years ago, no wonder we needed a truck just to move the workshop! A set of pram wheels – pram wheels, for pity’s sake! What have we here? If it isn’t the neck of my stone swan! It’s been holding the door open since time immemorial without its head!
Ancient iron hooks, seed trays full of burnt iron nails – don’t tell me, he’s been saving them from the wood burner! Tubes of Silicone, Quick Fill, No Nails, Gutter Repair, Instant Stone, No Leak, Liquid Bitumen. Half a dozen of those metal guns you fit them in. Why would you need half a dozen? No paint can opener.
Lathes, and rip saws, flat bed sanders and chop saws stand on trolleys, on wheels, that they might be wheeled to the perfect spot for use. Planers, and Router tables.
Another cupboard, copper tubing, gas pipe fixings – we don’t have gas! Olives, end stoppers, connectors, plastic drain pipe, old taps, more old taps, plugs….mmmn, could do with one of those for the kitchen sink….u-bends, e-bends, 30° bends, 40° bends, 45° bends, quite possibly z-bends. Rat poison, tomato food, rose blight spray, broad bean black spot spray, rose fertiliser, grass feed, string, plant labels, seed trays, more seed trays, plastic pots, mouse poison, bits of wood with string wrapped round it, old trowel with no handle, axe head, grass seed, parsnip seed, carrot seed, aubretia seed (that’s where it went, been looking for that) old mug with no handle full of pencils, all stamped Ikea, better not ask….
Rulers, tape measures, an entire drawer full of them. Measuring gauges in all shapes and sizes. Set Squares, another drawer. Screw drivers, dozens and dozens of them, and what have we here? Screw driver with head bent over, just the thing to open a treacle can…
Yank, yank, creak, yank…ping!
And the lid flew off and landed on the floor – upside down, naturally, right at Mr Gs feet.
‘What the Hell are you doing woman, you’ve got treacle on my floor’, he said, reaching down to the ready cut up supply of perfectly folded cloths, and getting down on his hands and knees to wipe the offending blemish away.’Why didn’t you use the paint can opener’? sayth he, opening a drawer full of the bally things.
I’ve been banished back to my minuscule kitchen, that was to be expected. I’ll do the washing up first, so that I can balance the bread maker on the draining board; I’ll have to unplug the computer of course, otherwise there’ll be nowhere to plug it in. Whilst the bread is proving, I can get the ironing board from its hiding place behind the bedroom door, retrieve the iron from the shelf under the bathroom sink, the ironing from under the window seat in the front room, and PLOT. No wonder he never lets me in there.
I have to work this out carefully. My need is greater than his. He can have a shed down the bottom of the garden like everyone else. Size of shed? 6′ x 10′ should be big enough, once the junk is cleared out.
Your suggestions as to tactics would be appreciated. Should I tell him first, or just do it next time he goes down the wood yard for 3 lengths of roofing batten?
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1
July 19, 2012 at 16:43 -
Crikey ! Either you were down there a very long time with a notebook at hand (I bet there were sevaral jars of pencil stubs), or you have had time to make repeated visits to do an almost entire inventory.
What to do? I could suggest several strategic moves but only at the risk of ruining a fine marriage.
Mr Racoon has facilitated your free-run of the upstairs. Is that not a joy? His exceptional effort at organisation could be written up ( I guess it has been now) and sent to Mz Magazine, blowing apart all their frequent diatribes about untidy men who cannot see a sock on the floor let alone pick it up.
But I will content myself with suggesting only that you be very, very nice to the Old Chap, praise his husbandry of memories and discarded momentoes, priase his care for that half- part of the house that you have not had to expend a single duster/hoover/mop/polisher hour upon, and take him special lunches to eat down there with his appreciative friends who will continue to flock to your place of masculine refuge.
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July 19, 2012 at 16:51 -
Only if he agrees to remove his satellite television with accompanying endless CDs of Formula 1 and Moto GPs, ten miles of wiring, and inbuilt sound system, and deliver glasses of perfectly chilled white wine to my new computer spot, where once the plasma screen sat…there’s a plug there and everything!
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July 19, 2012 at 16:52
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4
July 19, 2012 at 16:44 -
(And overlook my typos too)
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July 19, 2012 at 16:57 -
I am appalled that you should so badly misunderstand man’s way of life. Are us men to be allowed no secrets? No escape from the grim realities of life that threaten our emotional health and well-being? How do you think we are so capable and so wonderously able to hold off the forces of mechanistic chaos by mending and repairing all and every appliance, machine, domestic fixture and all those other various fripperies and items of vanity that our ladyfolk insist should stock their houses? Such superhuman efficiency and versatility requires a cool calm workshop, a place of study, work and contemplation.
Many a marriage is saved by the male having a safe retreat and I suggest you should do everything possible to encourage him. In particular I notice you have failed to mention a drinks fridge, flat screen TV or snooker table and I strongly urge you to help him to equip his lair with one or more such items! -
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July 19, 2012 at 17:10 -
There are easier much less traumatic ways to get a divorce than messing with a man’s shed.
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7
July 19, 2012 at 20:36 -
While I do not in the slightest disagree with whoever else is Mike, it was not me.
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8
July 19, 2012 at 17:13 -
Be no peace for the poor bugger now.
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July 19, 2012 at 17:31 -
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July 19, 2012 at 17:32 -
Anna, NEVER get between a man and his shed, even if it is half the house.
I had friends with a small farm – and a tractor – that lived above a series of sheds, in fact one of them was larger than the living space and there were three more rooms as well. It was decided, I know not by whom, that one of the smaller rooms would become the laundry. This appeared to work but a few months later a very large chest freezer appeared in another of the rooms. Six months later they had split up and sold the place.
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11
July 19, 2012 at 17:33
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July 19, 2012 at 17:55 -
On behalf of Mr Raccoon and homonism in general, I would leave the lower sanctum to itself.
I too use the lower half of the house for a workshop/thinking area, with all my tools, lathes, drills etc. My wife stays out of there and I stay out of her space, unfortunately this means that I have to do the laundry as a washer and dryer seem to have migrated downstairs when I was away! -
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July 19, 2012 at 17:57 -
Sheds and workshops and collecting shiny tools we might use one day are part of our world. Like beer, these things are beyond many women’s understanding.
Are they any less important than soft furnishings and bone china? -
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July 19, 2012 at 18:55 -
Saved string should be stored in labelled jars or tins as follows:
1 Long pieces;
2 Short pieces;
3 Pieces too short to be useful (ie for tying things, but there may be an as yet unidentified use for them in future and it would be a waste to cut usable pieces).
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July 19, 2012 at 19:17 -
I have a feeling that a nice can-opener thingy suspended from a shiny cup hook will appear in a prominent place in your kitchen very soon.
Out of the strong came forth sweetness.
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16
July 19, 2012 at 20:32 -
I’ve always used the handle end of a spoon for opening Syrup tins. I think Anna was just looking for an excuse to snoop…
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July 19, 2012 at 21:04 -
Not this tin you wouldn’t. This tin was specially battened down to survive the journey to foreign parts – otherwise known as France where they have never heard of proper treacle tart…and if they had, they’d use the wrong sort of breadcrumbs.
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July 19, 2012 at 22:58 -
I’m guessing that is a Sheffield steel spoon, not the mysterious metal used nowadays where the mere action of looking at it provokes a Uri Geller-like response.
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July 19, 2012 at 19:55 -
Other way round. Get him to build you a studio down the bottom of the garden. Then the capsule kitchen can be just for cooking. He has the required workshop facilities and skill; you could get a top-notch Raccoon Retreat with heating, double glazing, aircon, maybe even a tiny cloakroom and one of those darling toy verandahs that all the best 1950s stories have, tricked-out with Swiss-style with cheese-inspired woodsculpting . A Wendy house with a kettle in the corner sitting on a mini-fridge; it would be like a proper French artist’s atelier or chalet. It would feel like going on holiday every day.
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July 20, 2012 at 05:02 -
A woman can do anything a man can do, and better, so we chaps are told ad nauseam. So building one’s own retreat at the sunny end of le garden should be a doddle for any woman. Why get a chap to do it? Go to it, m’dear.
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23
July 19, 2012 at 20:17 -
Never interfere with a man’s drills. You may be allowed to play with his bits now and again.
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July 19, 2012 at 20:28 -
The more I hear about Mr G, the more I like and respect the chap.
Anna – consider your moves with great care. Remember that for most of his working life, Mr G has had to put up with workshops and sheds arranged around the needs of his clients, not around his own wants. He has had to sweat it out to pay the bills. Now, at long last, he has earned the right to a space of his own, a haven in which he can allow his creative juices full flow, unfettered by commercial whim. You must not mistreat this. If you gently enquire about his plans and projects, you may find that the household will benefit from finely made additions to the furniture and decor. Rudely intrude upon his space, and you – err – may not.
Bear in mind too that there are one or two little incidents – a houseguest with an unhealthy appetite for use of other people’s laptops, for example – that lesser men may have regarded as more than they should be expected to endure on their other half’s behalf. Think on – and cut him some slack.
A gentleman’s shed is his castle. Invasion may well be repelled with all necessary force. Do not provoke undesired conflict. I speak on behalf of shed-dwellers everywhere.
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July 19, 2012 at 20:31 -
What is it that you don’t understand about ‘KEEP OUT’. Without these accumulations of things of purpose none of those ‘little jobs’ would ever get done.
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July 19, 2012 at 20:49 -
My own shed/garage/workshop retreat is equipped with a barely-visible trip-wire which activates a (blank) shotgun cartridge aimed into an empty oil-drum – a resonating boom of death.
Nominally to deter/detect illegals, its de-activation machanism remains a secret from Mrs Mudplugger, thus ensuring that, even if the mega-decibel effect of any attempted entry was not heard by me at the time, it’s residual brown trail would surely lead to the guilty party.
There’s nothing like a marriage built on trust…… -
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July 19, 2012 at 20:51 -
For Mr G since his shed is no longer sacred….
http://www.kontraband.com/videos/31144/Greatest-MotoGP-Moment/#show -
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July 19, 2012 at 21:48 -
Burned into my memory is coming home to find wife and son being helpful, attempting to undo screws on a light fitting to replace a bulb.
Using chisels as screwdrivers. Carefully honed chisels they had found nested neatly in a wooden box marked CHISELS.
Hurt my tools, you hurt me, and NOBODY borrows edge tools.
It’s a bloke thing.-
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July 19, 2012 at 23:03
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July 19, 2012 at 23:22 -
I have shed envy, but as so many others have said leave Mr G’s shed alone, ask what reparation you can make for having violated it’s sanctity and then when you’ve made suitable atonement suggest as other’s have said that you’d quite fancy your own studio down the bottom of the garden
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July 20, 2012 at 00:23 -
I am fortunate enough to have an industrial unit with all my machinery, tools, gadgets, radios, hifi’s and boys toys spread out over two floors, with no one but ME to dictate what is and is not allowed to happen with them or their surrounding space ;o))
I’m 100% behind Mr G on this one!
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July 20, 2012 at 00:23 -
“…Every man needs a ‘den’.” This is nature’s law. I am a victim of just such an evil plot and my heated brick built motorcycle workshop, lovingly constructed to cocoon my beloved British motorcycles, to cosset them and let them rest (when not either being ridden or visiting the mechanic to put them back together again) has been turned into a utility room, full of washing machines and drying clothes…
Anna. May I counsel you against such a drastic move. Be content with your lot. ‘…Minima maxima sunt.’
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July 20, 2012 at 01:29 -
On the extremely slim offchance that The Man was ever drunk & demented enough to marry me I would take this article and the following replies as sage advice and Let It Be. But Definately angle for your own space and quite possibly a bigger kitchen, since he could obviously breeze through building you both!
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July 20, 2012 at 07:19 -
With a monicker like yours, I’m half way down to bended knee already!
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July 20, 2012 at 04:21 -
No chance. I wouldn’t let you have it if it was my Shed. But then I would have organized things better in the beginning. His Kitchen. My Shed.
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July 20, 2012 at 08:33 -
He can have a shed down the bottom of the garden like everyone else.
Depends which is more useful to you, the space or a contented husband.
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