Not exactly HIGH NOON

Two men set out to demolish a shed – and the shed wins

Clive is coming over,’ said Mr Dear once he could spare a moment from the demanding business of eating three Weetabix.

‘That’s nice,’ I said.

Clive is one of Mr Dear’s oldest friends, and a member of the party who escapes to Scotland each year for a chaps’ fishing trip (I mean a fishing party consisting entirely of chaps, you understand, not a fishing party that hopes to catch chaps).

‘As our trip had to be cancelled,’ explained Mr Dear, still speaking through Weetabix, ‘he’s coming over here instead. For a bit of fun.’

A distant alarm bell rang. ‘What sort of fun?’

‘We’re going to knock down the shed.’

‘We have a shed?’

‘Don’t be daft – of course we have a shed.’

‘Oh, you mean that pile of firewood at the bottom of the garden.’

‘Well, yes, I agree that it’s seen better days.’

‘You don’t need Clive,’ I said. ‘You need Tony Robinson and a team of archaeologists.’

‘Ha, ruddy, ha!’

My sympathies, in fact, were with Clive. At the beginning of the year, he was expecting a week of fishing, drinking, and slap-up restaurant dinners. And what does he get? A bring-your-own sledgehammer party.