Friday, March 5, 2010

The shed

I have never been one of the boys before.  I'm not into sports or outdoor adventure pursuits, will always choose a film about relationships over one with car chases, I like to talk about emotions and fashion, and until last year I didn't drink beer.

The country house has changed this. Suddenly I find myself with interests in common with men.  I spend more time with my male neighbours than with their wives. My neighbour Gary and I periodically like to stroll our properties, beer in hands, discussing various plans and dreams that we can't afford, along with practical things such as fences, water tanks and our dams.  I can now discuss septic tank design, weed control and plans for my barbeque. 

The biggest string by far to my masculine interest bow, though is my shed. I have a huge shed. Enormous. It was previously used for processing snow peas. It's two stories high. It has a spellbinding affect on men that I find fascinating.  Their eyes widen as they peer in and murmur in hushed tones about its potential. 

My dirty girly truth, however, is that I hate the shed. It is ugly to me beyond belief. It has been constructed in the cheap, haphazard manner of the previous owner of the property. It's rusty. It's impractical: there are beams where I would want to park the car. It is filthy. When I bought the property it was packed to the gunnels with the rat-infested belongings of former tenants. My dad spent days clearing it out.

 I can't even bear to post a full picture of it. Here's a small glimpse:


Work on the shed falls into the 'probably at least ten years away' category on my to-do list. One of my small personal amusements is to casually announce to the shed-admiring male that I'm going to pull it down. This is always met with horror and disbelief.  It's mean I know. The truth is that I would pull it down in a second if I had the money. I'm obviously still a girl at heart after all.

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