My Shed

I, like many men out there (and a good few women too) have a shed. It's a normal shed - 8 x 5, one door, pent roof, one window that opens, one that doesn't.

Nothing much to look at, nothing special.

Apart from the fact that it's MY shed. I have total control over that domain. It's my space, my volume. Within it are MY things, arranged the way I want. I have normal shelving and small shelves between the wooden supports, nooks and crannies, drawers, cubby holes and hidey-holes.

It has a work bench, a vice, tools and gadgets.

I have glass jars with bolts, washers and jigsaw blades. I have storage trays with assortments of nails, screws, hooks and all sorts of bits and pieces.

It has tools I bought, tools I inherited from my father-in-law, tools I inherited from HIS father-in-law.

Other guys have commented on my shed - how neat, well stocked, well organised it is.

I'm secretly proud.

I have off-cuts of wood. Steel, copper and plastic piping, plumbing and electrical spares.

I can happily spend hours in my 8 x 5 space, tinkering. I can see me in years to come, smoking my pipe, sipping a tot of whiskey, pretending I can't hear the wife or daughter calling me.

I have a heater to keep it snug in winter.

It's a place to escape, a place to tinker, to fix things, to ponder and create. My 5 year old daughter looks upon it with awe - to set foot inside is a rare treat. I feel like saying to her "One day, all this will be yours!"

I love my shed!

Good Times

I was walking along with my daughter the other day, chatting about princesses and dragons, and the general lack of evil fairies - like you do, and she asked me why the flowers die.

OK, well, my first (Buddhist) answer was, "well honey, all things die - the flowers have had their time to bloom and be pretty, and their little life is over until next year."

"Have they gone to Heaven?" She then asked.

I told her that they probably didn't go to Heaven, because part of them was still alive underground - waiting for next Spring. It was more like going to sleep for a whole year.

"Are you going to die Daddy?"

"Yep. Sometime. Hopefully not for another 53 years though."

(I'm planning on living to be 100 - it's a nice round figure.)

And so the conversation went on - soon to drift back to evil fairy queens and princes with horses that talk.

But that naturally led me to think about the whole mortality thing, and how we cannot take the smallest thing for granted, because, truly, we really don't know when the end will come, do we?

I was going home from work in London one day and was trying to decide, take the tube from St James to Embankment and then main line from Charing Cross, or walk to Victoria and take the main line from there. I stood for about 5 minutes trying to decide, but in the end took the tube to Embankment.

When I got home I turned on the TV and there on the news, news flash, a bomb had detonated at Victoria station, many killed and injured...

So, my point is - be aware of your own mortality - I don't mean be morbid, wrap yourself in perpetual sorrow, constantly look for signs of your imminent demise - I mean just be aware that at some point, it'll happen. Hopefully not for many many years, but how would you feel if you have a tiff with your wife, son, daughter, husband, mother - and they take the mainline train from Victoria that day?

I watched Remember Me on Sky movies the other evening and was amazed at how it ended. It made me realise we should not take our lives for granted. Look for the good times in every day, leave the bad stuff behind, keep your disagreements short and don't part with loved ones in anger.