I had a a hissy fit recently, there I’ve said it. I had a full blown throw-my-toys-out-of-a-moving-bath-paddy. Why would a full grown man do such a thing? I hear you say. Literally, I do hear you say, only my neighbour reads this blog and they wanted to know why me and my wife where screaming at each other over the soundtrack of Tom Waits. If you have a hissy fit this year can I recommend that you too employ the work of Mr Waits, it’s a wonderful contrast with four letter words and incoherent yelling. Now, back to why we were arguing. This was my office space.
Somewhere between a wardrobe rejected by the Narnian tourist board and a whole heap of dust sheets and stuff that even Steptoe and Son would have rejected is my desk. My lovely fall asleep on and dribble over desk. This has been my desk for over fifteen years. There was some talk about when we moved here that I would get rid of this desk and hot desk with my wife. This resulted in me working here for the last seven years because my wife can’t stand me working in the same room as her, apparently I mutter when I write:
A bed is a fine place to work but when I leave it, I leave a distinct outline of myself in the furnishings. You can see it! To be frank this side of the bed is fucked. The springs have gone, you can see my ass groove in the sheets, and we have ironed them! Simenon may have wrote in bed but it does become a bit horizontal after awhile. I suspect if I shaved my beard off I would have several double chins from craning my head down to see the computer screen and frankly going to bed at nights feels like I am going to work and that doesn’t do anything for married life: ‘I’m in the mood’, ‘I’ll just clock on, honey’. Hence the hissy fit.
I am proud to say that my wife took this in her stride and thrust bin bags at me, this is not a cue to leave with my worldly clothes in them but more an indication for me to get on with the job and not moan about it. The results may not amaze you but I now have a desk, not a dumping space and when my son tried to annex it for more toys he was chased out with the elephant on the windowsill. That’s another story. Why is a space for writing so important? Well, that’s for another day.