The Top 50 shed sequences: the cabman's shelter scene from 'Ulysses' by James Joyce

The shelter is no longer there...

Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the
hazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met
that M'Coy fellow.

He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champing
teeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet
oaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all they
know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags.
Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss.
Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their
haunches. Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they
look. Still their neigh can be very irritating.

He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he
carried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.

He passed the cabman's shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies.
All weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. _Voglio
e non_. Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying
syllables as they pass. He hummed:

     _La ci darem la mano
     La la lala la la._

…………………..........................

Preparatory to anything else Mr Bloom brushed off the greater bulk of
the shavings and handed Stephen the hat and ashplant and bucked him up
generally in orthodox Samaritan fashion which he very badly needed. His
(Stephen's) mind was not exactly what you would call wandering but a bit
unsteady and on his expressed desire for some beverage to drink Mr
Bloom in view of the hour it was and there being no pump of Vartry water
available for their ablutions let alone drinking purposes hit upon an
expedient by suggesting, off the reel, the propriety of the cabman's
shelter, as it was called, hardly a stonesthrow away near Butt bridge
where they might hit upon some drinkables in the shape of a milk and
soda or a mineral.

.....................................................

Mr Bloom and Stephen entered the cabman's shelter, an unpretentious
wooden structure, where, prior to then, he had rarely if ever been
before, the former having previously whispered to the latter a few
hints anent the keeper of it said to be the once famous Skin-the-Goat
Fitzharris, the invincible, though he could not vouch for the actual
facts which quite possibly there was not one vestige of truth in. A few
moments later saw our two noctambules safely seated in a discreet corner
only to be greeted by stares from the decidedly miscellaneous collection
of waifs and strays and other nondescript specimens of the genus _homo_
already there engaged in eating and drinking diversified by conversation
for whom they seemingly formed an object of marked curiosity.

--Now touching a cup of coffee, Mr Bloom ventured to plausibly suggest
to break the ice, it occurs to me you ought to sample something in the
shape of solid food, say, a roll of some description.

Accordingly his first act was with characteristic _sangfroid_ to order
these commodities quietly. The _hoi polloi_ of jarvies or stevedores
or whatever they were after a cursory examination turned their eyes
apparently dissatisfied, away though one redbearded bibulous individual
portion of whose hair was greyish, a sailor probably, still stared for
some appreciable time before transferring his rapt attention to the
floor. Mr Bloom, availing himself of the right of free speech, he having
just a bowing acquaintance with the language in dispute, though, to be
sure, rather in a quandary over _voglio_, remarked to his _protégé_ in
an audible tone of voice _a propos_ of the battle royal in the street
which was still raging fast and furious:

--A beautiful language. I mean for singing purposes. Why do you not
write your poetry in that language? _Bella Poetria_! It is so melodious
and full. _Belladonna. Voglio._

Stephen, who was trying his dead best to yawn if he could, suffering
from lassitude generally, replied:

--To fill the ear of a cow elephant. They were haggling over money.

--Is that so? Mr Bloom asked. Of course, he subjoined pensively, at the
inward reflection of there being more languages to start with than were
absolutely necessary, it may be only the southern glamour that surrounds
it.

The keeper of the shelter in the middle of this _tête-â-tête_ put a
boiling swimming cup of a choice concoction labelled coffee on the table
and a rather antediluvian specimen of a bun, or so it seemed. After
which he beat a retreat to his counter, Mr Bloom determining to have
a good square look at him later on so as not to appear to. For which
reason he encouraged Stephen to proceed with his eyes while he did
the honours by surreptitiously pushing the cup of what was temporarily
supposed to be called coffee gradually nearer him.

--Sounds are impostures, Stephen said after a pause of some little time,
like names. Cicero, Podmore. Napoleon, Mr Goodbody. Jesus, Mr Doyle.
Shakespeares were as common as Murphies. What's in a name?

--Yes, to be sure, Mr Bloom unaffectedly concurred. Of course. Our name
was changed too, he added, pushing the socalled roll across.

The redbearded sailor who had his weather eye on the newcomers boarded
Stephen, whom he had singled out for attention in particular, squarely
by asking:

--And what might your name be?

Just in the nick of time Mr Bloom touched his companion's boot but
Stephen, apparently disregarding the warm pressure from an unexpected
quarter, answered:

--Dedalus.

The sailor stared at him heavily from a pair of drowsy baggy eyes,
rather bunged up from excessive use of boose, preferably good old
Hollands and water.

--You know Simon Dedalus? he asked at length.

--I've heard of him, Stephen said.

Also see:
Jorn Barger's The Internet Ulysses 'A watershed in Irish culture!' said the Irish Times.

And for more on cabman's shelters see:
Cabman's Shelters on London Landmarks

The Cabman's Shelter Fund

Heritage and History including other shelters around the world

And just for fun click here to find every use of the word 'shed' in Ulysses!

What's the attraction? Discuss!

Roald Dahl's writing hut

Google 'shed art' and a thousand links and images fill the screen. So why do so many contemporary (and not so contemporary) artists, writers and poets use, explore or adapt the shed as a motif, symbol, exhibit or location.  Are there common underlying reasons? Is the shed revolutionary or reactionary, retrograde or reinventive? There seem to be some obvious answers but what do you think? Make your comments here...

George Bernard Shaw with his rotating shed

More on Murdoch: Blame the father... or the tree house...

In a Sunday Tlelegraph article, Michael Leapman profiled Rupert Murdoch and his upbringing by a stern father.

"Some 30 years ago I was strolling with Dame Elisabeth Murdoch in the garden of Cruden, the old farmhouse near Melbourne where Rupert spent his childhood. Over lunch, she had given me useful material for my biography of her only son, the burgeoning media mogul who had recently bought The Times and The Sunday Times. We passed beneath a tree. "That," she said, pointing towards the branches, "was where Rupert had his sleepover."

She explained that his father, Sir Keith, himself a successful newspaper executive and a stern disciplinarian, had been worried that Rupert did not possess the required steel to follow in his footsteps. To toughen him up, Sir Keith insisted that, during the school holidays, he should, whatever the weather, be banished to the unheated tree house. This regime was imposed for eight years, until he turned 16."

We made this - shedworking to beat the recession

At Artsmart in London, Shedman was interested to see Etsy promoting their online community of makers and sellers. One of their giveaways was the tea towel pictured above featuring a tree of sheds - an interesting image, suggesting growth, networking and the unique role of the shed for artists and craftspeople. At the bottom, the strapline: 'Stay handmade'.

Etsy describes itself as a global community 'with buyers and sellers coming from more than 150 countries. Etsy sellers number in the hundreds of thousands. Our mission is to enable people to make a living making things, and to reconnect makers with buyers. Our vision is to build a new economy and present a better choice: Buy, Sell, and Live Handmade.'

Their approach seems to be paying off. In May 2011, Etsy sold 2,006,810 items worth $40.0 million - a 75% increase on May 2010.

Shedman can't remember who said something like 'All a business needs is to make it and sell it', or that many successful businesses started off as a partnership between someone who could make the product and someone who could sell it. Etsy - and other sites like it - offer a way for makers to access their market globally through the partnership of an online salesperson.

Global distibution of Etsies if they were all glowworm

There's the thorny issue of quality here. One person's crafted birdhouse is another's lump of shed junk. But there's a democracy of demand here, and a refreshing lack of elitism. Many makers may have honed their talents and skills in the academy but the academy remains the training ground not the arbiter.

The number of Etsies who work in a shed must run into thousands, so in their honour Shedman has added an Etsy shed search to the sidebar. 

Sunburnt in the shed

Magnifying glasses and sunshine take Shedman back to cubs, primary school and burning holes in his sandals, hands and anything combustible. (The school was rebuilt.)

On sunny days over the last forty years or so, Roger Ackling has spent a lot of time in the shed, or just outside it, turning schoolboy fun into an artform. 'Down to Earth' is an exhibition of his sunburnt garden objects including forks, rakes, trowels and seed boxes at the Chelsea Space until July 30.

For our younger readers, please don't try this at home.

The Top 50 shed sequences: from 'The Castle' by Franz Kafka

'When K. had taken out the bucket of dirty water, fetched fresh water, and now began sweeping the schoolroom, a boy of about twelve rose from one bench, touched K.’s hand, and in all the noise said something he couldn’t make out at all. Then the racket suddenly stopped. K. turned. Here was what he had feared all morning. The teacher, small man that he was, stood in the doorway holding an assistant by the collar with each hand. He had probably caught them fetching firewood, for he thundered in a mighty voice, pausing after every word: ‘Who has dared to break into the woodshed? Where is the fellow? Let me crush him as he deserves!’ Here Frieda rose from the floor, which she was trying to wash around Miss Gisa’s feet, looked at K. as if to draw strength from the sight, and said, with something of her old dignity in her voice and bearing: ‘I did, sir. I couldn’t think of anything else to do. If the classrooms were to be heated at all this morning, we had to open the shed, and I dared not come to you for the key at night. My fiancé had gone to the Castle Inn, it was possible that he might spend the night there, so I had to make the decision for myself. If I did wrong you must forgive my inexperience. I was scolded hard enough by my fiancé when he saw what had happened. In fact he even forbade me to heat the rooms early, because he thought your locking the woodshed showed that you didn’t want them heated until you had arrived yourself. So the fact that they aren’t heated is his fault, but breaking into the woodshed is mine.’ ‘Who broke down the door?’ the teacher asked the assistants, who were still trying to shake off his grip, but in vain. ‘That gentleman,’ they both said, and pointed to K., thus leaving the matter in no doubt. Frieda laughed, and this laughter seemed even more convincing than her words.'

Kafka, F., 2009. The Castle. Oxford University Press. (Page 116-117)
Translated by Anthea Bell

The Top 50 shed sequences: from 'Austerlitz' by W. G. Sebald

'Someone, he added, ought to draw up a catalogue of types of buildings, listed in order of size, and it would be immediately obvious that domestic buildings of less than normal size – the little cottage in the fields, the hermitage, the lock-keeper’s lodge, the pavilion for viewing the landscape, the children’s bothy in the garden – are those that offer us at least a semblance of peace, whereas no one in his right mind could truthfully say that he liked a vast edifice such as the Palace of Justice on the old Gallows Hill in Brussels. At the most we gaze at it in wonder, a kind of wonder which in itself is a form of dawning horror, for somehow we know by instinct that outsize buildings cast the shadow of their own destruction before them, and are designed from the first with an eye to their later existence as ruins.'
[P23/24 Penguin 2001]

Austerlitz also contains the telling remark that shows the other side of Shedman's dictum Open the magic door:

'No one can explain exactly what happens within us when the doors behind which our childhood terrors lurk are flung open.  [P33]

Nominate your top 50 sheds in fiction, film and drama

Which are your favourite sequences featuring a shed - in a novel (graphic or otherwise), short story, movie or TV drama, stage play or musical?  Is it the Potting Shed in Graham Greene's play of the same name, or the gamekeeper's hut in Harry Potter - or Lady Chatterley? Enid Blyton's S.S. shed or Sarah Dunant's pig shed in Fat Lands? Eraserhead or Swimming Pool? The Dambusters or Kes? Provide the full title, context and exact reference if possible. Make your suggestions now. Prizes for the ten best entries. (The Shed movie and the world's worst novel The Shack are not eligible for nomination.)

The Guardian commissions new Shedman poem

There's a specially commissioned new poem by Shedman in the Work section of The Guardian today (Saturday April 25th) in honour of all you Shedworkers.

A Doddle

Alan’s in his shed, working away,
away from the children and the washing machine.
His aim, to start a business making Allan keys,
then move to a new factory in Milton Keynes.

Two doors down, in this gentrified terrace
of temporary structures some call shed,
Terence (Terry to his mates) Ferris
dreads the working days, the lonely hours,

spent, like Shami, in the caravan next door,
head inside a screen connected to a world
that’s rarely seen. The benefits of broadband
like Guantanamo without the waterboarding.

Jill, across the road, takes a different tack.
Her online business, run from a log cabin
the size of Slough, hawks holidays in
Moroccan riads and visits every one.

Terence, like his Latin namesake,
watches the newts gambol and
the lark of tits through the window
of the converted garage he did himself

and thinks, ‘You're a wise person
if you can easily direct your attention
to whatever needs it.’ He’s halfway through
the architectural drawing for his client

when the kids get home. Shedworkers rise
as one and insert pittas in the toaster,
praise their children, search for Marmite
in the wrong drawer, then return to work.

©Copyright Shedman 2009 All rights reserved.

If you would like to commission Shedman to write a poem for you or you would like to invite him to take part in your festival or event , get in touch with shedman at shedman.net. Serious shedworkers are also advised to check out Shedworking.

Shedman sorts out his online sheds!

After six months' blogging, Shedman feels he's getting the hang of it - after help from Alex at Shedworking and attending the fascinating Digital Horizons 2012 course at Ravensbourne College. But like all good sheddies, he's decided to move things round a bit.

So he's moved and refreshed quite a few of the stories and is sorting out the side panels.

Now, in Shedworld, Shedman explores the wonderful world of sheds.

And here in Shedlife you can tell Shedman what you do in your shed.

The basic idea is that Shedman goes into Shedworld and discovers Shedlife!

Audi Maserati

Audi (aka Dennis Robinson) sent Shedman this lovely piece after meeting him at a reading. They met up again at Havant Literary Festival. He's a genius singer/songwriter, performer and poet.

I enjoyed your poetry in Havant. .......here's a little poem that had I written it before yesterday I would have leapt up and given it to you then

This is the first draft and may change.. this is a present for you to do with as you wish. Thanks again

I got a shed ! I got a shed !
it's imaginary, it's in my head.
the walls are made of shadows
the roof, the wingtip of a small white bird
the floor is undiscovered

and in my shed absurd
in dusty jars on sloping shelves
I keep the fragments of a dream
and various explanations
as to what I think it means

I keep the whirling blades of sarcasm
in a bag hung on a nail.
I keep the bag shut tight.

In my shed absurd
there is no day or night.
Just the beating of tiny wings
as little words take flight
and drift into the shadows
to escape my dreaming head.
as my body chants the mantra
I got a shed ! I got a shed !


Cheers
audi maserati aka den

The shed, the tobacco and the wife

Michael O'Connor from the Wells and Spas Mailing List:

'The best shed I remember belonged to a very old
Gentleman in Pewfall about 50 years ago. He called it
his Bolt Hole, he made directly for it, whenever his
wife and he had too many women visitors. I was
privileged on occasions to be given guided tours of
whatever he was pottering with at the time. One of
which was his "Burglar A-llarum" which consisted of
trip wires connected to an alarm clock mechanism. When
I asked if he had caught any burglars he replied "only
the wife about every 3 weeks".
In those days, in addition to the old age pension,
pensioners received about half an ounce of tobacco a
week or fortnight. The old Gentleman was in the habit
of retiring to his shed with his pipe for an afternoon
nap in an armchair. After a small fire one day, he
received an ultimatum from his wife. "One of three
things will have to go, the shed, the tobacco or me".
The shed and his wife stayed.'