The New Shed, just next door, is a hurly-burly of industrial metal, whirring arms mechanically jointed, noise, and the smell of hot oil, sweat and labour. No place there.
Here in the Old Shed, almost silence, and sunlight dripping through the dusty, broken windows, sliding down the wall in streaks, pooling on the dirty floor. No-one to disturb her eight-armed work. A fly approaches...