Open Writing

You knew where he was, if he wasn’t inside. He was in his second home. Down in the garden, in his shed, where he escapes from the rituals and chit-chat of women.

From the beginning of time, men have had sheds to escape to. Without them, they couldn’t exist. The shed isn’t anything to look at. The walls are corrugated iron, the roof has been tiled with some of those old tiles that went out of fashion about 30 years ago; he retrieved them from the side of the road during an inorganic collection. His mates come around and they drink Steinies, or Budweisers. The little fridge my father had out in his garage has come in handy. They play darts, and cards. Sometimes he takes his shed with him. He talks of meeting his old friend Owen in his shed, but I know that if I really wanted him, I’d have to go traipsing down to the pub.

He says some smart-arsed women friends of mine blew up the shed, (as if they would) but it didn’t him take long to re-build it.

His father used to tell stories of the sheds in England, the place he called 'home' all his life. Until he lost his memory. Then he forgot. These sheds were on allotments, owned by the councils for families to grow vegetables. But really, they were just an excuse for men to escape from their women folk. And they’d get a chance to play cards or drink, or bet. They just had to make sure to remember to buy some spuds or carrots at the vegie shop on the way home. Not forgetting to take some earth to cover them with. She never suspected a thing.

If any of them were in the dog box, they didn’t have to worry, they’d just sleep in their shed; it was a lot quieter, anyway. They’d have a radio, and plenty of blankets, and a stretcher bed.

She’d never been in there for years. 'Why, one day somebody asked her if I had a shed, and she told her I didn’t. What a porker. Unless it’d suddenly become invisible, like me.' He liked to tell this story.

© Shirley Henwood

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Shirley writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au