Pieces of wood

We take a break from the house and trek down to the bottom of the garden. Dad wants to take the contents of the garage.

To the best of my knowledge, the garage has only been opened a few times since we moved here but Dad feels strongly that leaving it would be wasteful. The door opens a couple of inches and then jams. Inside, I hope that this will mean we can leave the garage, but Dad shakes the door until it opens wide enough to spray some WD40 on the hinges. Eventually, we manage to open the door about three feet, showering us with crumbs of rust as we edge underneath.

Around two feet of the garage is accessible, the rest of it is stacked with pieces of wood of varying sizes. These are what Dad wants to put inthe new garage. Looking around in the damp, the only light seeping in from a small, ivy covered window, I realise that not only is the new garage much smaller, but that Dad is also using it to house his favourite dinghy. A spatial logic defying feat similar to the one in the loft will be required to do this.

I begin to suspect that the job will be much easier if my brother is on side. As a craftsman, he could, at least, dissuade Dad slightly from the idea that the wood in the garage is all worth saving.

Dad insists that it is worth thousands of pounds and must be taken.

I call M, my elder brother. We discuss hiring a skip but that is too expensive. A few days later, M comes to help. He helps a little but in reality, he and Dad are alike. They fail to leave anything but household rubbish at the tip, instead coming back with interesting items they have bought.