Once, I lived without a desk for a year, when I was about twenty. It was horrible. The being without a desk, not the whole year. So as long as I live somewhere reasonably normal, a desk will be a necessity, even if it’s small. I’m no Michael Morpurgo, in more ways than one, but writing in bed will not happen any time soon. He’s welcome to it.
I think I’ve mentioned my wardrobe study in Sweden (does a wardrobe rank above a kitchen table?), with the ghosts gliding past every now and then. I moved into this small space after Mother-of-witch died, and we allowed ourselves to stay on in her house. Not only do we use all the bedrooms for sleeping in, but to be able to let other people stay here occasionally, I needed somewhere other than a public area for my desk. The wardrobe has a door and a lock, and room for a desk.
The desktop has deteriorated over the twelve years I’ve resided in my clothes cupboard, and badly needed some attention. Daughter gasped as we arrived here this time, because it has had some love and attention at long last. It’s what being alone does for you. I actually had time to tidy up.
I am writing this sitting on the chair you can’t see here. It creaks, so there is never any sneaking. It came from the college Mother-of-witch taught at, a very long time ago. When they refurbished the classrooms in the early 1960s she carried home a typewriter table and a swivel chair on the back of her bike. One at a time, I hasten to add, and with the witch walking next to the bike, holding on to things.
The desk is vintage IKEA. The various pots for pens and stuff are a collection of memories, which is why they have been spirited away like this. They clash in style and are lacking in taste, but they have meaning.The paintings are early Mother-of-witch ones, and the photos are early Offspring.
Two paperweights were collected down on the beach by me, whereas the third was given to Mother-of-witch at a conference in Edinburgh. Interestingly the Resident IT Consultant’s parents had one just like it. Same conference. Coincidence, or what? The phone, regrettably, is pink. It was the cheapest phone in the shop. We murder telephones with regularity here. Lots of thunder. Lots of dead phones afterwards.
New gift wrap in rolls on the right, and old wrapping paper and ribbons in the bag by my feet. I’m a real cheapskate, and if the wrapping on your present looks wrinkly, you’ll know why. The ribbon most likely came from the baker’s, safeguarding some wonderful cream concoction or other.
The pile of papers on the left are my ideas. I optimistically believe that one day I’ll get round to writing about ‘those things’. The smaller notes on the right are more likely blog subjects. One pile for books and one for culture. And don’t you just wish I’d get on with something useful rather than tell you more about my wardrobe?
Going online, however, is something I do elsewhere. So in a way I have two desks. Should I get seriously low on blog subjects I may tell you about my Salvation Army bargain, too.