Surely...surely the bench is the heart of the workshop. Amidst my labours and curses I thought "I have to have my bench in here." It stood all lonely against the wall, dirty and unminded for the last few years and served as a packing space for all manner of junk.

The preacher married Shana and I at that bench, he said it was appropriate as marriage entailed hard work. Truly funny fellow he was.

So she stood against the wall....my bench you guttermind...and her surface was dirty and scarred. At this stage I feel the need to say I feel very emotional about my work, my space and my tools. 'Twas like wiping a slate clean, a fresh start. Sanding that reclaimed pineto a silky finish and her waiting, gleaming already, almost smiling at me. The Danish oil, the smell..the stickiness and then her smile from painted lips of deepest grain, shimmering happily.

How do I find the right adjectives to describe what I feel? My chapel is nearly there and my soul is feeling lighter already. Against the wall some of the old tools are hanging with that quiet calm tehy so easily convey to me. They encourage me when I want to rush, as if the old cratsmen are watching over me, my gaurdian angels in warm steel and hand-polished wood.

My gorgeous one has carried in the hand-tools from my cupboard, something she enjoys immensely....my tools...he he. She takes the same pleasure I do in that feeling, that beauty. The cupboard needs hanging now, so till another time.....

Take care my friends.