A Shed of My Own

Today we tried to imagine summer and went over the border to look at sheds. Welsh sheds. Welsh rain and Welsh wind. Wind in the telephone cables and making them howl. Rain on the plastic roofs and rain on our heads. We ran from one small building to the next, aching with cold. Then paused inside each one - reluctant to move again.

We saw sheds like chalets with their own balconies and fancy-looking roofs


then sheds like stores; utilitarian little numbers eschewing windows except for light, sensibly-beamed, sombre, down-to-business

then sheds called cabins, smoothly finished, with perfect windows and perfect doors, tiled felt roofs, and enough room for a family of two or three to live for a week or two - or maybe a life-time - in adequate comfort


and then, at last, my shed. Eight feet by eight feet, three small windows on one side and two more and a door on the other. My place. We stood for sometime and listened to the rain beating on the roof; a comforting sound that somehow made me feel safe. No balcony, but leaded lights. Room for a desk, a chair and a lamp, and the resinous smell of wood and the hissing of a gas heater. No internet connection, no phone and no excuse.


It is something I used to talk about to my former agent, and now, at last, I am making it real - before the end of April.