Writing for Fun
July 2024
The Garden Shed - Jan Norman
The little green garden shed had been in existence for nearly eighty years. Sturdily built in the fifties by a young and vigorous Arthur. It had been used on an almost daily basis over the next five decades by him and later by his growing family as a place of storage or refuge, housing an ever-burgeoning pile of garden paraphernalia, long forgotten family toys and treasures. Sadly, but inevitably, as the century drew to a close a now senile Arthur and his long-scattered family used this shed less and less until, as creaky and arthritic as its owner, the shed spent more and more time slumbering as the house was sold and new owners moved in.
The noise startled the shed awake and it peered myopically down the length of the garden towards the back of the house. The once familiar mock Tudor semi in suburbia had been dragged, by its new owners, into the 21st century by the edition of a large extension of black lap-boarding and wall to wall bifold doors.
Through cracked, grime encrusted and spider web festooned windows the shed was now shaken to its core to see a scene of unrivalled destruction to the actual garden itself. Noisy machinery was ripping every living thing from the soil and all the walls and paths it had been familiar with during its long existence consigned to a skip. Day by day the workforce edged nearer to his walls. Shed trembled and sensing that its own inevitable demise was approaching sunk back into trance like slumber unable to bear the reality.
Loud voices shocked the shed awake. Workmen were actually inside. Door and windows were being ripped out and the roof stripped. This must be it. The end. Oblivion. The shed tried to hang on to old pleasant memories but the destruction continued. Suddenly rending of wood turned to sawing of wood, hammering of nails and the smell of paint. Oh joy, not oblivion but a renewal. Time passed and soon all noise faded. Shed blinked as it surveyed, through sparkling clean windows, the new garden filled with colourful trees and flowers. Perfumed climbers scrambled over arches and a fountain splashed and tinkled within an Italian style courtyard. Shed felt renewed vigour surging through its timbers. No more slumbering. Time to savour the next eighty years and all the delights it would bring.