Many of you out there might think a shed is just a shed. Well, I'm afraid you'd be wrong. If you are of the belief that your shed is just something in which you store the lawnmower, garden furniture and the odd flowerpot, you really might not be getting the most out of it.

I've just read the story, 'SHORTLANDS: Homeless Romanian found living in family's shed'. It really is a most interesting article and one which made me think about the many different uses for a common or garden shed.

Gone are the days when sheds were the refuge of husbands eager to beat a hasty retreat from their wives' nagging in order to smoke a crafty fag or revisit their collection of vintage porn magazines.

The shed has ceased to be just another wooden construction at the top of the garden and is now regarded as a 'des res' by certain unsavoury immigrants who consider it quite acceptable accommodation in today's troubled world.

Obviously, some would argue that the average shed is not exactly suitable for human habitation but the article proves that this is not the case, especially if the occupant is supplied with a regular supply of cheese sandwiches and fizzy drink by the owners.

I am seriously thinking about renting out my old shed. It is quite sizeable and I could move the tools and other assorted paraphernalia, i.e. old toys, rusty bikes and barbeque, into the garage to make a bit more room.

My shed has a window, so I'm sure some nice curtains would add a certain je ne sais quoi to the overall feeling of home for those willing to live there.

Naturally, I would want something in return for all my effort and, let's face it, the price of cheese these days is an absolute scandal.

I know! Instead of paying me with money, my new lodger could present me with a statue of Jesus, which I could then give pride of place on the patio. Then again, perhaps that is not such a good idea, because foxes that also call my garden 'home', might defile it on a nightly basis when they push my bins over scavenging for the remains of the leftover cheddar sarnies. And Heaven forbid that an escaped cheetah might jump the relatively low garden fence and attack Our Lord - not me, I mean Jesus - and by doing so, offend God fearing Christians everywhere.

Perhaps the idea is not as good as I first thought. After all, who in their right mind would supply cheese sandwiches and Coco-Cola to a refugee who is on bail for a public order offence?

Cheese sandwiches, indeed! Only honey roast ham would be good enough for my new lodger, followed by a dessert of buckshot delivered to his rear end from my trusty Joe Manton shotgun.

I can quite honestly say that it's on occasions like these that I wish I owned a vicious dog. I'm sure a hungry rottweiler would make very short work of cheese-loving, Coke-drinking, shed-loving miscreants from Eastern Europe.