Ah draw closer to the fire my friend as I show you pictures of sadness and of woe, of forgotten dreams and wasted time, of missed opportunity and of lost causes. What pictures of sorrow await to haunt your dreams as you ken my words? Well they are pictures of sorry abandonment of a sacred and holy place, a refuge to men from the horrors of domestication, a place that on past occasion has brought solace and comfort to my troubled mind. Yes dear friend I’m here to show you the degradation of a place of meditation and peace that would rival the desolation of Smaug. For those of a weak constituent please avert your eyes now.
Truly the pictures that have seared your eyes are indeed of that holiest of holy places ‘The Garage’. There was a time, dear reader, when this hallowed place was the hub of so many dreams, a whirlwind of the plotting and the planning of projects and of tasks that would leave friends and neighbours in awe at my ingenuity and skill. Where the shaping of future labours of magnificence was to take place enabling yours truly to bask in the glory of accomplishment. But not only was it the birthplace of my creative and innovative projects, oh no it was far more than this. For here a man could find peace and be at one with himself and the world around him. A place where fellow garage gophers would gather and talk of manly things such as Wale’s chances of being a world power once more (on the rugby field that is), where fishing trips past and future would be discussed at length and the one that got away grew with each telling of the tale (and with each vassal of grog gleefully consumed), where indeed grown men would feel relaxed enough to hug each other at the arrival of a much sort after ½ inch router bit or a Japanese water stone for the sharpening and honing of cutting edges, oh heady days indeed.
But now all plans are laid in waste as last year’s morose feelings led to nothing more than this once sacred place being naught more than a dumping ground for everything and more that was not required or wanted in clan Wooldridge’s home, oh sad and shameful days indeed. There was a time, now in distant memory tis true, that this place offered solace and peace for this wandering Welshman, but now it would appear all is lost and perhaps it offers no more than winter quarters to a few mice and frogs that await the spring.
Ah but all is not lost, for indeed with the arrival of the warthog known as
a need descended upon me. Indeed it soon became obvious that the fun cruisers ‘dog guard’ proved nothing more than a cobweb to be brushed aside by the little weasel allowing her to deposit all manner of detritus upon the back seat in recent weeks, the little imp. I'm needful of something to confine her to her rightful place in the rear of the cruiser and being as tight as a ducks arse (and that’s water tight) I deemed to construct a barrier to her infernal clambering, ‘twas at this point that I was confronted by the pictures above, the word bugger did escape my lips at this points. So the Herculean task of reinstating my solemn sanctuary has begun. Willow
Now I know full well that the majority of my beloved readership enjoy my tales of the outdoors and my wayward wanderings but truly that is not all there is to me and to glean the complete picture of who I am there will indeed be tales from the garage and its rebirth and future projects and adventures within a small space. So to begin from scratch, project number one will be the dog guard, or as it may be known ‘the garage reborn'.
Your friend, and shed head,