My Garden Shed Is Worth £475,000. Can Someone Lend Me a Fiver?

This is an entirely fictional Sunday satire. Any resemblance to an actual property company, its directors, financial forecasts or unusually enthusiastic valuations is purely an opportunity for readers to draw their own conclusions.

Last Sunday, at precisely 9.17am, my wife asked me to tidy the garden shed.

By lunchtime, I was a property developer. By three o’clock, I was worth £300,000. By teatime, I was considering an offshore tax arrangement.

By Monday morning, I couldn’t afford a bacon sandwich.

It began innocently enough.

“That shed,” said my wife, “is a bloody disgrace.”

I thought this rather unfair. The shed had been standing in our Hythe garden for twenty-three years, which was longer than either of our children had remained at home and considerably longer than our last washing machine.

Admittedly, the roof leaked, the door was held shut with a brick, and something living behind the lawnmower had recently developed a cough.

But these were minor maintenance issues.

“There’s a bicycle in there,” she continued, “that hasn’t been ridden since Tony Blair was Prime Minister.”

“Vintage,” I replied.

“There’s a petrol strimmer that doesn’t start.”

“Antique.”

“And what about the three dead mice?”

“Previous tenants.”

She gave me the look women reserve for men who have mistaken stupidity for wit.

“Clear it out. Today.”

I was contemplating this unreasonable demand when my neighbour, Derek, appeared over the fence.

Derek had spent thirty years working in finance, although nobody knew precisely what he did. Whenever asked, he said he was involved in asset management, which I understood to mean moving other people’s money about until nobody knew where it had gone.

“Why are you throwing all that stuff out?” he asked.

“Because my wife has threatened to put me in a skip.”

“Good heavens, man. You don’t throw assets away. You maximise their value.”

He examined the shed thoughtfully.

“What’s it worth?”

“About forty quid. If I include the brick.”

Derek shook his head.

“That’s your problem. You’re thinking like a householder. You need to think like a property company.”

He took out his phone, photographed the shed and announced that it occupied a prime location within walking distance of Hythe town centre.

“It’s next to my compost heap.”

“Established green infrastructure.”

“The roof leaks.”

“Integrated rainwater harvesting.”

“There’s a rat under the floor.”

“Biodiversity net gain.”

I was impressed. In less than two minutes, Derek had transformed a rotten shed into something that sounded eligible for government funding.

“With the right valuation,” he said, “that could be worth £300,000.”

“Three hundred thousand pounds?”

“Potentially.”

“Who’s going to pay that?”

“Nobody needs to. That’s the beauty of it.”

He explained that I should establish a property investment company, transfer the shed into it and obtain a suitably optimistic valuation.

“Then what?”

“Then you report the increase in value.”

“As income?”

“Well, strictly speaking, there are accounting rules, but you’re missing the broader commercial opportunity.”

“What broader opportunity?”

“Being considerably richer than you were ten minutes ago.”

I immediately established Shedportunity Holdings, appointing myself managing director, my wife company secretary and our elderly Labrador head of risk.

The dog accepted without objection, having considerable experience of sleeping through important decisions.

Our first board meeting was held in the kitchen.

I explained that the company had acquired a strategically located mixed-use development opportunity with excellent environmental credentials.

“Where?” asked my wife.

“At the bottom of the garden.”

“That’s a shed.”

“That’s a rather negative way of describing a £300,000 asset.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No. I’m running a business.”

She went upstairs.

Derek suggested that our company should commission a five-year business plan.

I asked why.

“Because nobody takes you seriously in property unless you’ve got one.”

“What goes in it?”

“Ambitious projections, strategic priorities, a few charts and a photograph of something green.”

We spent the afternoon preparing a glossy document entitled Shedportunity 2031: Unlocking Sustainable Growth Through Asset-Led Transformation.

It contained fourteen pages, three graphs, several arrows pointing upwards and the word ‘stakeholder’ thirty-seven times.

The business plan forecast income from residential development, renewable energy, tourism and educational visits.

“Educational visits?” I asked.

“Schools might want to see how a successful business operates.”

“Inside a shed?”

“Don’t be so parochial.”

We also identified opportunities for a rooftop solar installation, although the roof would first need replacing.

Derek described this as a capital investment requirement.

I described it as £1,800 I didn’t have.

By Tuesday, the company was showing remarkable progress.

The shed’s revised valuation was £325,000, representing an increase of £25,000 in forty-eight hours.

“How did that happen?” I asked.

“Market confidence.”

“Whose confidence?”

“Ours.”

This was enormously encouraging.

I went to the local supermarket and filled a trolley with steak, champagne, smoked salmon and a rather extravagant cheese.

At the checkout, my debit card was declined.

I telephoned Derek.

“There’s something wrong with the bank. I’m worth £325,000.”

“Ah,” he said. “That’s asset value. It isn’t cash.”

“Can I spend it?”

“No.”

“Can I use it to pay the electricity bill?”

“No.”

“Can I buy a sandwich?”

“Not without some actual money.”

“Then what bloody good is it?”

There was a long silence.

“Have you considered refinancing?”

By Wednesday, the business was encountering what Derek called temporary liquidity challenges.

The shed needed a new roof, the fence was collapsing and somebody had stolen the brick holding the door shut.

I had also received invoices for £850 from a surveyor, £1,200 from a planning consultant and £600 from Derek for strategic advice.

“What advice?”

“Monetising your underutilised assets.”

“You told me my shed was worth £300,000!”

“£325,000. Do keep up.”

That evening, my wife asked how much money the company had actually made.

“Potentially £25,000.”

“Potentially?”

“In valuation gains.”

“How much rent?”

“Nothing.”

“How many customers?”

“None.”

“How much in the bank?”

“Six pounds forty-three.”

She stared at me.

“So you’ve spent £2,650, earned nothing and still haven’t tidied the shed?”

I explained that these were complex financial matters and that she was failing to appreciate the distinction between operating cash flow and unrealised asset appreciation.

She explained that if I used the phrase ‘unrealised asset appreciation’ once more, my own assets would become considerably less appreciated.

On Thursday, disaster struck.

A genuine buyer offered me £75 for the shed, provided I dismantled it and delivered it to Dymchurch.

Derek was horrified.

“Seventy-five pounds? That’s a catastrophic undervaluation!”

“But it’s real money.”

“Exactly. That’s why it’s dangerous. Once someone offers actual money, you discover what something might really be worth.”

I declined the offer.

By Friday, Shedportunity Holdings had accumulated £2,650 in unpaid bills, no customers, no revenue and an increasingly magnificent balance sheet.

Derek suggested raising the valuation to £400,000.

I suggested he seek psychiatric assistance.

On Saturday, my wife arrived with a crowbar, dismantled the shed herself and took the timber to the tip.

“What have you done?” I cried. “You’ve destroyed the company’s principal asset!”

She looked at the empty patch of concrete.

“Have I?”

“Yes! Four hundred thousand pounds!”

She considered this carefully.

“Well, that’s wonderful. We’ve now got a £400,000 view of the compost heap.”

And with that, she went indoors.

I sat on the lawn, surveying the ruins of my financial empire.

Then I had a brilliant idea.

The land was now vacant. Cleared. Development-ready. Surely its value had increased?

I rang Derek.

He agreed enthusiastically.

By Sunday morning, Shedportunity Holdings was worth £475,000.

I was delighted.

My wife was less impressed.

She had just discovered the £600 invoice for Derek’s advice.

“You’re paying a man six hundred quid to tell you that removing a shed has made you richer?”

“That’s professional expertise.”

She picked up the invoice.

“Right. I’m going to charge you £1,000 for making your dinner.”

“A thousand pounds?”

“Yes. I’ve had it independently valued.”

“By whom?”

“Me.”

I protested that nobody would pay £1,000 for a shepherd’s pie.

She smiled.

“Nobody needs to. That’s the beauty of it.”

And that, dear readers, was when I realised I’d married the finest accountant in Folkestone and Hythe.

Unfortunately, she now wants paying in cash.

And unlike my property company, she knows exactly where I live.

The Shepway Vox Team

The Velvet Voices Of Voxatiousness