On a Wednesday morning the doorbell rings while I’m working in the kitchen. My wife, who is expecting a delivery, opens the door. “No, I don’t want brake pads,” she says. I don’t hear the reply. “Because I’m not a garage,” my wife says. “Do I look like a garage?”
There actually is a small garage just beyond the end of our back garden. Only a brick wall separates it from my office shed – my working days are punctuated by the bright ring of dropped wrenches and the grating whine of power tools.
