Alex proud gives his views over at the Timesonline and says how he got a shed for the sheddie in his life.
One day, the man gives up and retreats into his shed, which is his last refuge, a kind of man preserve. Even then, his wife wonâ€™t leave it alone, and will constantly make suggestions for its â€œimprovementâ€ (my wife tells me thereâ€™s a trend for wallpapering oneâ€™s shed â€” what?). Itâ€™s like a Brazilian soya-bean farmer eyeing up the last scrap of rainforest.
Iâ€™ve managed to turn the tables, though. Having lived in several flats that soon came to resemble inhabited car-boot sales, when my wife and I built our own house I was determined to control the clutter from the outset. So, I bought my wife a shed. Not just any shed, but the double-glazed, heated, supersized Rolls-Royce of sheds. Making it expensive was key â€” the cost meant I was not denigrating her knick-knacks. By going posh, Iâ€™m not merely offering a storage solution, but a place where my beautiful wife can express her creativity. Itâ€™s not a perfect solution: soft cushions still litter my B&B Italia sofa like so much flyblown trash, and ornaments still sprout like mushrooms on unwatched surfaces. So I have to be vigilant, but, by and large, my nice modernist house does not resemble a live-in eBay. As for the shed, Iâ€™ve been in there only once. It took me a week in a sauna retreat to recover, and the sight of multicoloured macramÃ© still makes me sweat.
but as we all know sheddies, both his and her sheds are great and provide the retreat for him or her.