The Great Shed of Mystery

I've just returned from a visit to my aunt Barbara who lives near Liverpool. Her house is the one we visited during summer holidays when I was a child, and the shed in the garden was a source of delight (my aunt and grandfather never threw anything away). This shed was built by my uncles when they were teenagers, using as few nails and screws as they could, after a challenge by my grandfather. One of the first rituals of summer was to examine the contents of the shed. And many things made it into this shed: worn-out saucepans, still life paintings from my mother's days at art school, 1960s high fashion shoes, the moses basket my twin brother and I had slept in as babies, many, many jars and bottles for which there was sure to be a use one day, my grandfather's green Atco lawnmower with its slightly scary blades, old picture frames . . . As you can see from this, it's also the Great Shed of Memory. It had its own smell as well — slightly tarry and woody, and it's a delight still when I visit to step into the shed on a hot day and enjoy that particular scent again.