Dad loved his shed. It was his real home. After the war his shed was an old Anderson shelter but his retirement gift from work was a brand new wooden shed which lasted him until he moved to our house (and was too poorly to use it) in his nineties. The vision of him in the shed in mid-winter with a paraffin heater, his pipe, a piece of wood on his lathe and the smell of glue in the pot wafting out of the door is one of my undying memories of him. I’m sure GB has a photo somewhere of Dad sitting at his bench, taken through the door of the shed.
I’m not sure that Dad pottering in his shed saved Mum and Dad’s marriage but it certainly helped them to have a long and happy retirement together.
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