How to build a she-shed

One person working from home is fine. A small desk and chair can be made to look tidy, chic even. Two people working from home poses a peculiar problem. Do we work next to each other? In a makeshift office/bedroom situation? Forever clearing things away when people come to stay. Or do you take a good look in your very awkwardly shaped garden and propose a she-shed?

Decision made. Plot chosen. Flat-pack shed ordered.

That was the easy part it turns out.

The plot for the shed is great. South-facing, nestled away from everyone, quiet. Just me and the cat. There’s just one not-so-small problem. Sitting smack bang in the middle of the chosen plot is a palm tree stump. One metre diameter and one metre tall.

Armed with a giant handsaw, an axe and a bucket, I confidently stride up to the stump. Couple of hours work, max. It turns out that a stump like this one, cut-down at least a couple of years ago has turned into what can only be described as concrete, really, really hard concrete.

But if I want my she-shed, then I have to put my big girl pants on and get on with it.

Seven hours later, the skip has two buckets of hard-as-nails waste in it and I’m on the verge of tears.

The stump removal takes seven days. SEVEN DAYS, of blisters, sweat and tears of frustration. Once the concrete shell is hacked into, the stump reveals its hidden secret. A damp interior that’s impossible to cut and stinks to high heaven.

At this point I feel that it’s important to point out that my husband is away working, test driving an Aston Martin in Catalonia. Yes, really. I get a phone call from him, which I take covered in soggy palm, sitting on the stump.

Husband: Hey, sorry I didn’t call this morning, my butler got me drunk so I woke up late

Me: What….. wait, what?

Husband: Aston Martin provided butlers at the hotel to make sure that we had everything we needed.

Me: Mine got me drunk too. He handed me a glass of red wine with my beans on toast, after undressing me outside as I’m so dirty, put me in the shower, which was cold for no explicable reason and then did the washing up, and put me to bed. What a service.

Husband: It’s going well then.

There are no words.

I stand up, pick up my axe and bash the shit out of the stump. To my amazement it starts to finally break apart. Nothing that a bit of rage can’t fix.

One hundred and 25 large buckets of dead palm stump is what it takes to get it down to the skip.

Now for the concrete base. I call in the help of my dad and my husband (when he’s finished driving Astons). I’ve never mixed concrete or laid a slab. My dad has built a house in Greece; he is the sage of concrete. By some miracle a builder friend has a concrete mixer that we can have. It makes the strangest sound, a hypnotic whining that I swear I can hear it in my sleep. It’s a messy business this mixing lark. My husband has to heave the wheelbarrow up three small stairs. We get a puncture half way through. We slog on, puncture and all.

Two days later, the slab is done. It’s magnificent. I sign my name in it and open a bottle of wine. My Dad tells me that the Greek tradition is to slaughter a cockerel in one of the corners and let the blood dry into the slab. Good Lord.

I open the flat-pack shed and find the instructions are in French. My GCSE French doesn’t extend to shed construction, so we just wing it. The giant bits of shed slot together quite easily and it’s up in under two hours.

One coat of white paint applied and a fake terracotta roof fixed in place, and the whole project is done. I grab my tiles and mortar and get going on the floor, using the leftovers from our house renovation. I don’t have it in me to pick any more tiles, I just don’t.

I love my she-shed. Now all that’s left is to design some stuff, set up a business, design a website, set up and Etsy and Amazon Handmade store and sell some art works.

How hard can it be, right?