The Shed Problem

I was woken at 6.30 one morning by a hammering on my back door. I quickly dressed and hurried downstairs to find Alun in an excited mood.

“I’ve built you a shed, Jed.”

“A shed? But it’s 6.30 in the morning, when have you had time to build a shed?”

“I woke early, Jed. I’ve been watching Celebrity Shed Build on the TV and thought I’d give it a go. After all anything Sue Pollard can do I can do.”

“What am I supposed to do with another shed?” I said.

“You can use it to carry out creative tasks.”

“I don’t do any creative tasks. I’m a writer, I have no time for mucking around with knitting and such.”

“What about darning socks, Jed. You’re always darning socks. You can use your shed.”

“It’s an idea,” I said. “There always seems to be a sock needing darning, they never seem to stay darned, I need to re-do the same socks after a couple of days.”

I started using the shed for darning socks every Monday. It was highly successful, having a separate space for sock darning made the task less burdensome. It was such a success that I decided to dedicate Tuesdays to making cuddly toy alligators, after watching Celebrity Alligator Maker on the TV.

On Wednesday morning I was interrupted in my wickerwork by Alun, knocking on my shed door.

“You’re already awake, Jed,” Alun said. “You’ve never been up at 6.30 before.”

“I’ve started Wickerwork Wednesday,” I said. “I’m making hanging baskets. I was inspired by Celebrity Basket Making on the TV. If Jeremy Clarkson can make a basket for his begonias, then so can I.”

“I’m pleased to see you using your shed at least, Jed.”.

“Yes, I’m using it every day now. Sock Monday, Alligator Tuesday, Bird Box Thursday, Knitting Friday and Saturday Pottery.”

“At least you still have Sundays off, Jed.”

“I thought I’d use Sunday to run a writers’ workshop,” I said.

“But you’re the only writer on the island, Jed. You can’t run a workshop on your own.”

“I thought I’d open the workshop up,” I said. “Invite mainlanders to come along.”

That Sunday there were only two writers on the lunchtime boat for the writers’ session. The first of these was a heavily bearded man in his fifties, who looked like a science fiction enthusiast.

“I’m Sci Fi Steve,” he said. “I’m writing a 2 million word science fiction novel about an alternative universe in which human civilisation has evolved without spoons. I thought it would be good to connect with other writers. I haven’t left my bedsit in six years before today.”

The other participant was a young person with short hair, glasses and no obvious gender.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“I’m Jem,” they said.

“Jem,” I said, “I’ve not come across that before, is that a girl’s name or a boy’s name?”

“Neither,” said Jem.  “I’m gender queer, non-binary.”

“In which case you should use the ‘undecided’ toilets, it’s the door with the question mark.”

Despite the poor attendance the writers’ workshop was a success. Steve wrote another 73,000 words of his master work and Jem rewrote Peter Pan with all gender queer characters – it took surprisingly little work. The following week there were seven participants and fifteen the following week. Not only that, the participants began to take an interest in the other Jed Shed activities.

Before long I had opened up all of the Jed Shed activities to mainlanders, and, like the writers’ workshop, they soon built up a following. Even Sci Fi Steve started attending Knitting Friday.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Steve,” I said.

“I don’t usually leave the house, it’s true,” he said. “But I’ve been watching Celebrity Pants Knit on TV. I never thought I’d be so worried that Sue Perkins’ woollen knickers wouldn’t fit.”

Indeed, the popularity of the various celebrity arts and crafts TV programmes meant that the Jed Shed was packed every morning, from arrival of the morning boat to the departure of the evening boat. “I’m going to have to get a bigger boat,” said the boatman, but that’s another story (see the Killer Shark Problem).

Every morning I was woken by hoards of mainlanders swarming from the morning boat to my Jed Shed, sometimes it was difficult to find a space for myself.

The Jed Shed continued to receive visitors in this way for several months. However, one day in the Sock Darning Club, Sci Fi Steve took me to one side.

“We’ve been talking about your socks, Jed,” he said.

“My socks?”

“You’re always darning the same socks, it’s as if you wear them once then have to darn them again.”

“That’s exactly what happens,” I said. “My stitching doesn’t hold.”

“Well your standards are letting down the rest of the shed. Frankly it’s embarrassing. We’ve agreed to exclude you from Sock Club.”

“But it’s my Shed,” I said.

“Even so, the first rule of Sock Club is one member one vote, and I’m afraid we’re unaminous. You’re going to have to find somewhere else to darn your socks.”

The next day was Alligator Tuesday. Again Sci Fi Steve approached me and took me to one side.

We’ve been talking about your alligators, Jed,” he said.

“My alligators?”

“Your alligators are always terrible. They look like green socks with eyes stuck on. I’m afraid that your standards are letting down the rest of the shed. Frankly it’s embarrassing. We’ve agreed to exclude you from Alligator Club.”

“But it’s my Shed,” I said.

“Even so, the first rule of Alligator Club is one member one vote, and I’m afraid we’re universal. You’re going to have to find somewhere else to make your cuddly toy alligators.”

The same happened next day at Wickerwork Wednesday, and again at Bird Box Thursday, Knitting Friday and Saturday Pottery.”

“Well at least they can’t kick me out of the writing workshop,” I said to Alun. I’m a professional writer, they can’t complain about low standards.”

However, that Sunday, I was greeted at the door of the Jed Shed by Jem.

“I’m afraid you’re not welcome at the writer’s workshop, Jed,” they said.

“But why? I’m the only published writer in the group.”

“It’s nothing to do with your writing. We’ve agreed to make the writers workshop a safe space for the LGBTQ community. I’m afraid you’ll have to find your own workshop space.”

The next day I was woken early by Alun hammering on my back door.

“It’s the sock darning club Jed,” Alun said. “Nobody’s turned up.”

“Nobody at all?”

“No. The TV companies have been losing their audiences. Everyone’s been watching the big celebrity craftwork shows then spending the rest of the week with their TVs switched off doing arts and crafts. The advertisers are furious, which is why they launched Celebrity Box Watch.”

“Celebrity Box Watch, what’s that?”

“It’s where celebrities are filmed sitting in their armchairs watching TV all day.”

“It sounds dreadful,” I said.

“Of course it’s dreadful Jed, it’s celebrity-based reality TV, it’s always dreadful, but it means that people will stop turning off the TV for all their other hobbies and get back in front of the sofa

“Surely once they’ve taken up a new hobby they won’t stop, just because they’ve seen Christopher Biggins lounging about watching The Chase all day long.”

But they did stop, fickle as mainlanders are. There were no takers for Alligator Tuesday, Wickerwork Wednesday, not even for Pottery Saturday.

“At least you’ve got your shed back Jed, Alun said.

“Yes, but after the harsh critiques of the mainland members I don’t feel inspired. I mean, look at this alligator. It really is terrible.”

“It does look like a green sock with stuck-on eyes, Jed,” Alun agreed.

“And no matter how many times I darn my socks they always unravel as soon as I wear them. Maybe it’s just time for me to buy some new socks.

“New socks Jed? But you’ve not bought new socks in all the years I’ve known you. It could all go horribly wrong.”

“People buy socks all the time,” I said. “Nothing extraordinary is going to happen.”

How wrong could I be. However, this story must end here, at the end, you can read all about it in the next story, the Sock Problem.