Wooden It Be Nice

So there comes a time in a man's life when he requires a wooden structure away from the familial home in which he can keep his vast collection of paint stirring sticks, listen to Test Match Special and spend some time in deep contemplation, growing a beard. That time has come. Shed time.

My DIY Dad wholeheartedly agreed with me and the parents popped down last weekend, with Mum delighted to be allocated full-time keeping-Theo-away-from-power-tools duty. After Homebase (better selection, cheaper price and quicker delivery than B&Q, in case you were interested) had delivered the appropriate wooden bits (forty-seven) and we had established that we had enough electric drills (three), we set to with the construction. Actually that's not quite true; I had to go to work on the Friday so he spent the morning digging an 'ole...

Upon my return, there were 28 sacks of rubble, an ex-tree to take to the tip and a base to be bolted together and dropped in...

Standing back, admiring our handiwork I squinted at the frame, leading me to casually remark that it "looked about level to me". So we tested that theory...

Bloody hell, it was! Hurrah, saved about an hour's banging things randomly with hammers :)

The next thing was to get the sides up. There aren't many photos of this process, as it seemed to require a minimum of 6 arms and there were only two of us. Still, we were making progress...

Not surprisingly, the next stage was to tackle the roof. After the obligatory joke about "getting felt up", we did just that (also note classic use of delicate Victorian garden furniture as sweaty bloke's drill storage area, sawmill and workbench)...

By now, it was very late, we were very tired and the door wouldn't close because, it turns out, the adjacent window fittings had been designed by a committee of Venezuelan baboons on acid. In fact, we ceremoniously tore up the instructions at this point and got a load of 2" screws involved. And, suddenly, we'd only gone and built a shed...

The following morning, before dashing off to play cricket near Slough (I know, my rock 'n' roll life, eh?) there was Ye Grande Shedde Openingg with honoured guests and dignitaries from the borough...

And today, one week on, I found myself sat out at the very same spot in a canvas chair with a mug of tea, reading the weekend papers whilst Aggers burbled gently from the wireless and the sun beat down on SE London. Bliss...

Huge thanks to the parents, without whom this project would have been an epic fail, and to Solveig for finally caving in and letting me do it (although I suspect that she is secretly delighted that she now has somewhere to banish me...)

Mens Things

Via Scaryduck:

Pavlov's Cat: Things That Make You A Man

Added to which should be, of course, BUILDING A SHED!

More to follow...

Play Park(ing)

It's a good job I have a decent amount of IKEA self-assembly experience. Theo received a wooden garage for his birthday and I've just got round to putting it together. It's beautifully crafted but I'm fairly sure I spent less time building two beds, a wardobe, a chest of drawers and a bookcase when we moved in here :)

Anyway, some how-to photos (and you may catch a glimpse of my junior construction assistant who was mostly helpful, when she wasn't hiding key pieces under the sofa and trying to keep a straight face when I couldn't then locate them).

And, after he woke up from his nap, the happy recipient:

Shed Watch #1

It's here!

Somewhere in that lot are some instructions, I hope. Watch this space (or if you are our neighbours, watch the scrubby bit at the back of the garden next to the leylandii and the holly bush...)

Blistering Paste Of Change

Back in the long distant past, possibly some time just after Mafeking was relieved, we bought two rolls of rather nice Laura Ashley wallpaper to cover up the hideous peach abomination left in our bedroom by the clearly colour- and taste-blind previous owners.

Due to a not inconsiderable (and, in my view, perfectly justified) fear of making a complete and utter balls of it, these rolls of doom have laid (lain? lied? layeth?) under the bed for months, taunting me from their prone position in the shadows into questioning my very existence as husband, father, son and life member of 'the mens' club. Finally, I could take no more and called my Dad on the electric telling-phone:

Me: "Excuse me, oh good and great Pater of mine, how tricky is that wallpapering thing like what I have heard so much about, then?"

Dad: "Pfft, nothing to it. You remember I once papered the walls and ceiling of the house in Deramore Drive in York with hessian...??"

Pausing only to painfully recall what it was like to be a nine year old boy living inside what was to all intents and purposes a semi-detached coconut, I invited him to come down from t'Dales and pass on the requisite dad-skills. Ten days and one quick trip to Wickes later ("What do you mean you don't own a pasting table?!"), we were all set.

I can happily admit here in this very public forum that measuring, cutting and pasting that first piece of very expensive paper took me nearly an hour. An HOUR. I've never been so nervous in all my life* - especially as it turned out we were on the absolute limit of drops-per-roll for the size of wall and could not afford even a single torn piece (the event of which would mean having to down tools and head for the nearest Laura Ashley in a desperate attempt to find a roll with the right batch number - not fun).

Gradually, despite the best efforts of the somewhat wonky Victorian bedroom walls and ceiling (cue much "Oh, thou wantest a right angle Squire Blythe? Ho ho, that's a good 'un, did you hear that, stap me vitals" etc and so on) I just about got into a rhythm - measure drop, measure paper, measure paper again, cut paper, paste paper, paste wall, hang, slide, match, brush (top > sides > bottom), brush excess out, trim ends, sponge wall, drink tea - and roughly half the job was done in not much over two hours. I was actually starting (almost) to enjoy it when suddenly...

Me: "Er...so what do I do about these here electrical sockets and that?"

Dad: "You cut like what is called an 'ole in it, son"

Me: "I do ... WTF?"

In fact, despite the nervous wielding of extremely sharp scissors (thanks, Wickes!) this was not as bad as it sounded and, whilst remembering we had absolutely no slack on spare paper, I papered right over the socket (that felt insane) then cut an 'X' to feed the socket through, and trimmed the triangular bits once it was tucked behind. Screw the socket back on et voilá! Perfection (steady on now - Bravado Ed.)

And suddenly, if suddenly can be applied to what was for some parties a slightly sticky three-hour tea drinking marathon, we were at the last drop:

More observant readers will have noted the casual stance adopted above - perhaps as if one were leaning on a lamp-post at the corner of the street until a certain little lady comes by, rather than desperately pushing a particularly stubborn air bubble to the side of the wall for the umpteeenth time.

Still. It is done. And if anyone is still reading after this incredibly boring and self-indulgent post (is there any other kind of blog?) then here is the wall as it currently looks:

But wait - there is a faint purpose to this nonsense. Yes, with this Sunday being 'Father's Day' (and you can put that apostrophe where the hell you please, my fellow pedant-o-bots) I would finally like to propose a toast:

Thanks Dad, for putting up with my cack-handed DIY skills and general procrastination for some 37.5 years. Here's to you. Cheers!!

* perhaps apart from my Grade 8 flute exam, opening the batting on the 1990 Old Woodleighans XI tour of Durham** and a Lewisham midwife handing me a very tiny Freyja.

** I got a third-ball duck, since you ask.