Fia of the Shed

My father, a burnt out advertising man, promised himself that when he retired he would build a shed and write his novel. It would have been good. I may not have liked it - his Gorbells humour could cut deep - but the writing of it would have satisfied him.

It never happened and now I am nearly the age he was when he died, I have his shed.
Of course it's not his or mine really.
The last tenents left it behind and no
wonder, it's so heavily insulated, I'm surprised it hasn't sunk into the earth.

Apparently, alledgedly, the last people grew funny plants in it. I did wonder at all the electrics and big lamps. And the spiders with their funky, unfinished webs.

I've wanted to show off my shed for a while but didn't want Debs to think I was suffering shed envy - although I do indeed envy her the lovely shed of sheds. And Grumpy.