Strange to say, I’ve got through 45 years, two marriages (one of which endureth, and may it long do so) and three kids without ever building or owning my very own personal shed. Yes, dear reader, this totem of manhood has previously passed me by and I’ve not been all I should be as a husband, father, friend or neighbour as a consequence.
The Bikers, for such we now christen the friends who will be next door when we finally move, had a shed in kit form surplus to requirement. In need of some outdoor storage for bikes (push) mower (lawn) and box (roof), we negotiated the purchase of said shed (right, said Fred) and this morning I borrowed his skills and expertise in construction matters and we set forth to build the beast. All went very well for about a minute, and then we found we had no felt to create a dpc beneath each supporting batten, so off into town I went to procure the same. Back onto the job and all was going well, yea, even unto the raising of the rafters, when we discovered, on starting to put the onduline roofing felt up, that we’d placed the rafters so that the ridge had no visible means of support. After contemplating the damage that would arise from attempting to shift the rafters from their new security, it was decided to sark the roof. In Scotland, this means boarding over the entire roof surface to provide a secure and wind-proof base for the roof covering. I remembered that I had a large piece of marine ply in the garage at The Chookery, which was used originally in the construction of the CatFlap(R) when we moved the mog up from Somerset. Engaging the assistance of our old friend gravity, it was the work of a moment to liberate the marine ply from the roof of the garage and flatten the stepladder which had been the means of my ascent to the heights. Imitating a gibbon, I brachiated down to the floor and measured the plywood, to find it almost exactly the right size for one side. Neighbour had liberated some chipboard flooring panels for the other side and we soon had the shed securely roofed and, eventually covered. Well pleased with our efforts, I returned to The Chookery to find Her Maj surrounded by papers in the midst of sorting for the move.
Later this evening, I persuaded her to come and admire the Grannexe, which she did and, demonstrating that she remains the boss and I need to know my place, promptly locked me inside. Och well, at least I know it’s rainproof and can afford an old man some little shelter in moments of crisis.