"It looked ok this morning, so I didn't bring a coat" she said to me mournfully yesterday as we ventured out hastily in a flat grey sheet of Belgian rain to find a sandwich. "The weather changes so quickly here, and mainly for the worse". She looked so dejected in her pretty sleeveleess dress I wanted to hug her.
I squeezed her shoulder in silent support and guided her into the metro tunnel, where the smell of waffles and the esoteric mid '90s hits raised her mood a little. But keeping her from resigning demands constant vigilance and small squares of chocolate and advice on where to buy meat that isn't made from tapeworms.
Anyway, that wasn't what I meant to say today. I meant to say someone referred in passing in an email recently to 'your desk'. And it made me think, internet, that you should see what I have to put up with in terms of working conditions.
My 'desk'. Here I sit, hunched and grinding my teeth, usually very cold, surrounded by crap.
1. Quick tray. Stolen back in the mists of time when the CFO used to occasionally behave in a mildly irresponsible fashion. Lashes came home disconsolate the day I made his Pokémon birthday cake and sent him to school with it on this tray. "Everyone said I had stolen it from Quick". A new and unexpected strand of parental guilt then.
1. A solar powered robot spider, frequently to be found in:
2, the tortoise house with its state of the art heating and lighting system. Note also one of those RIDICULOUS weather stations on top of it, just to check on the wellbeing of our tiny shelled friends. I have just gone to check and it is 17° in here, the downside of the only UPside of this room - the garden view. I am cold. So cold, my tiny hand is freezing, etc etc I am about to break into romantic arias and then maybe lie on the floor and die of consumption.
3. Actual Work on my inept and barely started writing project. Actually I have just checked what part it is, and it's a part I have already reread through my fingers and deleted. Maybe I could go crazy and put it in the bin too? Yes! We are tidying! And it's all thanks to you.
4. This can be our mystery item of the day. What do you think Item 4 is?
5. This giant box of crayons, as well as containing a selection of packaging, biscuit crumbs and lost VPN tags, is full of all manner of lidless pens and broken crayons but let me tell you with pinpoint accuracy what it does not contain: any pencils, erasers, pencil sharpeners, red or black felt tips, or normal pens for writing with. I do an inventory at least once a day whilst looking for one of those things.
6. Whilst it is entirely evident I have no self-respect or standards from the foregoing, I would like to say that the marks on the table cloth are paint. Just paint. It is the special painting tablecloth. Why is it there when noone is painting? Good question. Maybe I have grown to love its cheery orange motif. MAYBE NOT.
A room of one's own Part III
Do not, whatever you do, rustle in or make anything that could be construed as an eating noise at my desk, or you will be instantly greeted by this sight.
For the remainder of the day tremulous weepette eyes will stare at you. Occasionally the intense staring is accompanied by a high pitched whimpering noise that makes you want to gouge your eardrums out. Lay your head on the filthy keyboard and join in. This is the environment from which true creativity stems.