If You Build It, They Will Come... ('The DSM')

Occasionally I will get an 'urge'. An urge to build something. 

Many years ago when our children were young I got the urge to build them a tree house. Like Noah constructing his Ark, it took several days to build, cost an absolute fortune and was far too big for our small terraced garden (it probably should have had planning permission)...but when I had finished, it was a thing of beauty and I was very proud of it.

Having been sated, my urge disappeared for a few years; it didn't go away, it just lay dormant somewhere inside me. One morning I awoke with a start, the urge had returned!

I needed to build a wall. An extension to the house was far too ambitious (and planning permission would definitely be required for that), I had to build that day. I needed to lay brick on brick, I needed to use the handle of my trowel (which I would purchase) to tap each level and gracefully scrape away the excess mortar... it always looks so effortless on the telly. 

Days later, after great expense and a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth I stood back and looked at my walled barbecue … and I smiled. It was not the straightest thing in the world, but stood for as long as we lived at the house and every time I tasted a burger that had been cooked on it, I glowed with pride. 

Having moved to rural France and wondering if I had left the urge in Blighty, again, I woke one morning to discover the urge is not adverse to international travel. I turned to Anna, my wife, “I'm going to build a chicken coop”, “Oh god. Is it going to be expensive?” was her supportive reply. 

Similar to most Brits in France we have ongoing renovations and had accrued varies bits of wood, which were kicking about. I would use them. I would 'recycle'. “It will cost nothing!” I exclaimed. 

Like Caractacus Potts in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang I disappeared into the barn taking every tool I possessed with me. I was in there for the best part of a week, with the odd interruption for sustenance and sleep. 

I was in heaven. Much the same as Victor Frankenstein slowly creating his monster, the sound of drill, jigsaw, hammer, accompanied with a mad cackle of laughter and shrieks of “It's alive!” would emanate from the barn. Being made mainly of oak, the coop was becoming extremely heavy and the various pieces had to be lugged into position and joined 'on-site'.

Like a proud mother I have taken photos of the new arrival and sent them to friends and family members hoping for a suitable response. I don't know if we will ever get chickens. I might just keep it as a place to think and 'be'. Maybe when Anna and I have had our next domestic, I will flounce out, shouting “If anyone wants me, I'll be in the chicken coop!” 

N.B. The object above the door is not Jesus on the cross, but a brass knocker in the shape of a Scottish bagpiper (which used to adorn our front door). The idea being you knock for however many eggs you want.