… in which I shed my shed…
“I will tear down my barns and build bigger ones…”
It was countdown to Armasheddon. The Leaning Shed of Eaglesham had been getting squintier by the day. If only I had set up a time lapse, back when the shed was first erected; we could have watched the slow twist and slope as gravity gradually took hold, when what went up would start to come down of its own accord.
Built in a hurry, to store a pile of junk we didn’t need, want or use for the following decade, the shed originally did well. It kept our half empty paint pots, leftover tiles, redundant gardening tools and ill-considered amazon purchases beautifully protected from the elements.
Then the door started to stick; then it started to refuse to shut; then it definitely started to go a bit squint and the Leaning Shed of Eaglesham became a thing.
Meanwhile, I dreamed a dream of a summerhouse, a she-shed, a little timber haven that would have nothing in it but a silent seat for one and a view of my view.
“Take life easy; eat, drink and be merry…”
The day finally came when I couldn’t give the shed garden-room any more. I took the aforementioned carefully stored items to the tip, got a crowbar and started the demolition.
It was very satisfying at first, kicking out the tongue and groove slatty things, taking care to dash away if the shed threatened to lurch or topple too far in my direction.
The weird thing was, it turned out that the whole shed was being kept “up” by a solitary paint can, that was maintaining as close to a right angle as it could, on a shelf by the door. Dislodging that was a scary moment. A bit like playing kerplunk.
The other tricky part was getting the roof off. It was so robust compared to the rest it, what with its waterproof roofing and the fact that it was made of two massive sheets of actual wood and not the daft slatty things that the walls were made of.
Once the shed was fully skeletal, and the structural-integrity paint can was gone, the weight of the roof started to slowly, slowly crush and twist what was left of it. I got a bit panicky that I might be rumbled in the act of demolition by someone tall, strong or competent before I got it down.
So I went a bit crazed with my hammer and crowbar and battered and pulled at the roof until it was finally flat and inert and looking as if it had never thought twice about knocking my garden wall down at all. Phew.
The quoted parable doesn’t work out well for the man in the story. He dies before he can get his bigger barn up. I haven’t got my summerhouse yet. I just have the space for it, which has turned out to be a very useful place to dry clothes.
Here’s hoping I can earn enough peanuts to buy a summerhouse next spring. I also hope that it’s vertical.