Unlike some of our neighbouring countries that have garages and basements, we have sheds. Even when we have garages, we still have sheds. Sheds are, according to Bruno Bayley the European managing editor for Vice, “magical places where dads go to drink larger and curse their wives while surrounded by power tools and broken deck chairs”.
Now for some dads this might be an accurate description, but in Princes kingdom, there are six of these said, sheds, and each one has a purpose. Very few have tools (but the ones that do are wall to wall), none have broken deck chairs, and cursing is a luxury free to roam, with no boundary or limit.
However, shed number five is my favourites. Shrouded in mystery. With no special markings or anything particularly interesting to look at, my father once described this shed as “better than any caravan”. With nothing but a deck chair, an ashtray and a radio surrounded by crap, it was the only room in the garden to have a padlock.
I imagine him sitting there, thinking all kinds of things, and I figured this is where it happens. This is where all his ideas come to him, all the weird and eccentric concepts in his garden, like the painting on the outside wall. This is where they are born. While he sits there, in the dark, listening to the rain on the roof. Who knows, some things are meant to remain a mystery, and I like it that way.