TALES FROM THE SHED
The Shed receives few visitors. This is either down to its secret location on the outer reaches of somewhere very far away or because I am notoriously unwelcoming. Or maybe it’s because whenever some optimistic and well-meaning chum drops by to say hi! what happens next is that they get roped in to providing support and assistance with whatever horror story is currently cluttering the bench. Some visitors claim to be delighted. Oddly enough, they never reappear. Strange, that…
I had hoped that by now we would all have forgotten my utterly completely intensely silly decision to buy a deceased and mostly dismantled BSA to turn into some kind of vague ‘special’. I’m never entirely certain what ‘special’ actually means, especially as I’ve suffered grievous misfortune over a long and indeed weary lifetime which has included trying to ride and then trying to write about several ‘specials’. My very favourites are those specials which aren’t special at all. Often they are simply unpleasant lash-ups, but presumably their owners love them. At least… they claim to do so, invite a magazine to feature them and promptly offer them for sale. Which is one of the many things a scribbler needs to remember when the gushing delight is about to gush onto the page, where other people might
