It was Monday morning at the Men’s Shed, and the shed was abuzz with the familiar clatter of tools and the not-so-familiar cursing that only scrap timber could evoke. Loz, Bob E, and Michael were huddled around the latest donation from Tite-Fix—a heap of what could generously be described as “wood.” It was more like a collection of glorified toothpicks held together by enough rusty nails to build a small battleship.
“Right, lads,” said Loz, looking at the pile like it had personally wronged him. “Today’s challenge is turning this… art installation into something usable. Mud kitchens, trugs, planters—whatever it ends up being after we’ve wrestled it into shape.”
Bob E scratched his head, peering at a particularly warped plank. “This one’s got more nails than wood! By the time we pull them all out, we’ll be down to kindling.”
“Kindling’s useful, Bob,” Michael chipped in. “Let’s not underestimate our ability to turn quality scrap into even more quality scrap.”
The three of them set to work, armed with hammers, crowbars, and the collective stubbornness of men who had seen worse timber in their time. Bob E pried out a nail the size of a railway spike, holding it up triumphantly. “Look at that beauty. Tetanus waiting to happen!”
Loz had a different approach. He was more of a “hit it until something happens” kind of bloke, and after a particularly enthusiastic swing, the plank he was working on split in half.
“Perfect!” he declared, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Now we’ve got two pieces. Twice the productivity.”
Michael, meanwhile, had set his sights on the lathe. “I’ll leave you two to your demolition derby,” he said, grabbing one of the somewhat straighter pieces of wood. He inspected it with the eye of a man who knew that under every nail-ridden plank lay the potential for a masterpiece—or at least something vaguely mushroom-shaped.
The lathe hummed into action, and soon Michael was coaxing what might eventually become a decorative mushroom out of the wood. “See, it’s all about vision,” he said, shavings flying like confetti.
Bob E chuckled. “Vision? Mate, I’ll be lucky if I don’t end up with splinters in me eyeballs.”
Hours passed, and despite the odds, the pile of timber began to shrink. Bob E had fashioned some rudimentary trugs—though “rustic” was probably a better description. Loz had salvaged enough planks to start on a planter, even if it did have more gaps than the Shed’s tea schedule. And Michael, well, he had a family of wooden mushrooms that looked more like they’d been foraged from a particularly experimental forest.
By late afternoon, the three of them stood back, surveying their handiwork.
“You know,” said Loz, dusting off his hands, “it’s not half bad. We’ve turned a load of scrap into some proper projects. Even if most of the timber’s been used as firewood in our imaginations.”
Bob E grinned. “Yeah, and we’ve got enough nails to start our own hardware store.”
Michael, holding up one of his mushrooms with pride, added, “Or at least enough for me to retire from mushroom farming. This one looks like it’s sprouted legs.”
The shed echoed with laughter as the three of them packed away their tools for the day. Another successful—or at least, creative—day at the Men’s Shed, where no piece of wood, however nail-infested, went to waste. After all, in their hands, even the most hopeless timber could become something new, something useful, or, at the very least, something that made for a good story over a cuppa.
