Our grandad's shed has stayed like this since he died in 2023 aged nearly 95. Uncle Paul uses it occasionally and the pigeons seem to have moved in completely and shat everywhere which grandad would not be happy about. We used a picture of him sitting in here for his mass card which some members of the family weren't happy about because they said it looked untidy. But mam said that it couldn't have been more him. ‘His office’ is like a portrait of the man in the form of a room. When he died uncle Paul said that it was like his batteries just ran out and he stopped - that he would have just kept going forever if he could - still tipping away in here - spot welding the hitch of a trailer with no mask on, painting stuff green, undertaking primitive carpentry and accepting visitors. All at the same time telling long complicated stories about black arsed donkeys, espousing the benefits of using Lamlac in the rearing of young sheep, milk prices in 1959, the time he saw Brendan Behan shouting at someone at a funeral, the antics of Lugs Branigan a Dublin policeman who he knew who whacked offenders in the face with a special pair of leather gloves within which he had concealed ball bearings, the health giving properties of a bowl of coddle, delivering milk to the Dublin tenements, to the best way of administering a dose of poitin to a calf who has a drippy arse on and on and on forever. In my mind this shed is an eternal space like a forgotten barn in 1930’s dust bowl America or a dairy farmers' version of Francis Bacon's studio in the Hugh Lane Gallery. God bless George Nolan wherever he may be.