I’m going to tell you the story about the birth of baby Jesus. You might have heard about it from your teachers at school. You may have been in a nativity play yourself, with either tinsel on your head or a fake beard strapped to your face, so I’m sure you know the gist – Mary, Joseph, donkey, journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem. Well, that part is spot on the money.
The bit that they won’t have told you about is the accidental detour Mary and Joseph took to Chipping Bottom, a pretty and characterful village in Hampshire, which came about thanks to a less-than-professional spot of angeling.
None of this would have happened if it weren’t for the She Shed. We thought it would be a place to have our ladies’ night in peace – away from the children waking up at midnight, away from the husbands giving a cursory wave before heading upstairs to watch sports in the dark, away from the dirty dishes piled in the sink. All we wanted was a place to call our own. To have something that belonged to us. What we got was our lives and homes ripped into bloody shred.