Who said it? A man's gotta do, what a man's gotta do. To most people the old saying reminds them of some unshaven cowboy strutting his stuff at high noon. It appears that the streets were deserted, all but for this little guy named Randy, or to be precise Randy Smallbottom. It seemed that the night before he had taken to drinking at the Last Chance Saloon, and after many a glass of five fingers he had proposed marriage to the one and only person that was drinking in the bar that night, big mistake for Randy, it turned out to be the sheriff. The next morning Randy was dressed in black with a well balanced selection of matching accessories and brown leather chaps, a red, royal blue and shocking pink bandana hangs and flutters from his neck.  He gave not a toss for his large brimmed hat, dressed with a peacock feather and Coleman's mustard silk band, as he tossed his head in the air. Then this hat, complete with trim, he placed gently on his head to shade his blue eyes from the glare of the sun; very slowly he looked around. He pulled himself up to his full height, all 5ft 3inches, or 5ft 9 inches  in his cowboy boots, as he rearranged his bottle top specs, there is not a sound to be heard. You could almost hear a pin drop.
Slowly he makes his way along the street, looking on at a safe distance is this one horse town's undertaker with long tailed coat and his tape measure in hand. He manages to keep his distance by hiding in the shadows, as he knows that his services will soon be required in booking accommodation for some unfortunate sole in the next few minutes, in the great hotel in the sky, namely Boot Hill. Then out of the darkness of the side walk comes the most undesirable of critters known to man, his hat tilted at an angle to shade his eyes; two loaded 1845 colt 45s are slung on his waist. His shirt was torn from bar brawls, and there for all to see was his badge. As he approached Randy, it appeared that the heel that was missing from the sheriff's  left boot, gave him an afflicted walk, but this was due to the cobbler having been shot dead a few weeks ago so there was no way of getting it fixed. Then the sun hits the face of this critter, and this reveals the badly semi-healed scarred face and the missing front teeth. Also the sun left an unexplained reflection on his right eye as it constantly changed it from white to yellow and then red. Yes sir this was the town's sheriff, upholder of  law and order; married with ten children and a few that he was not to blame for, and without a fig's chance of being a soul mate of Randy's. So it had to happen, it was not long before the two cowboys were face to face with each other, with just a few yards between them. Randy shouted out to the sheriff  "can't remember too much about last night", he just made his big mistake confirmed at this time by the undertaker that Randy made his last stand and placed both his hands on his hips, the wind had just whistled up his chaps and made his pea feather stand on end and then he came out with his last words' "hello sheriff here I am. All yours". The sheriff's hands were at that time only one inch away from his Colts, his index fingers slightly curved, the tension was at a peak. Slowly his face turned a strange colour, his lips were tight, and slowly these words came out, "HI PUNK MAKE MY DAY". 

STOP, STOP, you've got it all wrong, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do has nowt to do with cowboys at high noon, no, no, no, it's a thing that goes right back to childhood when we as young boys had dens, well hidden in farmers fields. But as we became older it became garden sheds, don't tell me you ladies  haven't heard your man say as he heads off at high speed to the bottom of the garden and the peace and tranquility of the garden shed that you can't recall hearing, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Or if you are really posh it's called the potting shed. It's just the place for concealing all that French booze that you brought home with you from your last trip, "just nipping down the old potting shed, darling, won't be long." only to found by the Mrs two hours latter in a drunken stew, flat out in the corner of the jolly old potting shed laying over a half full bag of rotting compost. Just to add insult to injury you've still got your Canterbury bells in your hand. What a man's gotta do is up to him as he feels safe in the tranquility of his own comfort, far away from prying eyes. 

There is a small amount of rules to adhere when buying a new shed, all the windows must be front facing, the only way in should be by a door, that must be positioned in the side or back of the shed also it must have a good size bolt that can be locked from the inside.The final site of the shed should be as far away from the main dwelling as possible, a good clear view will help and this will give you a few minutes notice to take action if you come under attack. Don't forget, any shed less than 150 yards away from the house will be a problem as a sneak attack will always be easily made by the enemy. My first recalls of the garden shed was the one that grandfather owned, of course this was at the bottom of a very long garden, so giving the black hand gang plenty of warning if required. The other shed and retreat  my dear father owned, Roger my so called friend had two attempts at setting fire to it, so for us as children, the shed was put out of bounds. The other one that I remember with great affection is the shed that my beloved uncle Bill owned. He was the person that taught me to fish at a tender age. He also taught me to look around me as I was fishing, taking in the wild life, also how to float a little bait down the river into the waiting shoals of fish, or just to sit for hours with out making a sound, and some thing that we all forget is, just a love of life. Even after 40 odd years I still feel his presence often when fishing alone and of course I still miss him. Uncle Bill was a special person in my life, a man who did not understand the basic rules when it came to placing his shed in the correct site. But maybe uncle had it cracked and he wasn't a fool by any means, the shed was his and his alone, full of all his fishing gear and nowt else, it was his shed even if it was just ten feet from the house door, maybe he had  held the answer, sadly all the times he took me fishing I never asked him, so sadly we will never know.
 

As the summer approaches fresh local crabs and fresh asparagus are two of my favourite foods. Put them together and you can enjoy the best of both worlds. This is a dish that we use in the restaurant each year, served with early new potatoes it's a dish to remember.
For two persons buy two freshly dressed Cromer crabs. These should be ready to eat, remove all the crab meat
into a bowl, put a small saucepan of water on the stove and bring to the boil, add a pinch of salt. Take a bunch of fresh asparagus and trim the hard end off with a knife. Once this has been done, pop the asparagus into the water and cook until just tender. When cooked, cool under cold water and then drain on kitchen paper and set aside. Cut all but four spears into chunks leaving the whole asparagus for placing on the top of the finished dish. The next thing to do is make a little white sauce. You can cheat by buying a packet sauce from a shop.  Once you have your creamy white sauce add a good handful of mild cheddar cheese and mix well in.
So now you have it, a cheese sauce. The next job is to take the empty crab shells and the crab meat; put a little of the crabmeat into the shell, and add a little of the sauce then put a little of the chopped asparagus into the crab shell then more crabmeat, then add more sauce, then more asparagus. Do this until you have used all the crabmeat, finish by topping with the whole asparagus, a tad more sauce then a topping of grated cheese. To cook place the filled crab shells on a tray and pop into a hot oven say for ten to fifteen minutes, the cheese should be well melted. You can if you wish pop it under a hot grill to get the really golden brown finish. As I said, serve with maybe a simple salad and English new potatoes with lashings of butter. It only leaves you time to head off down to the potting shed and open a nice bottle of plonk.

Colin Rushmore