It has been a dumping ground for too long. Though I largely write in bed nowadays, doing a Simenon (but without the brothel creeping), I still need an office to print stuff out in and store things. Yes, writer things, the kind of things that my wife looks at me and says such things as, ‘What the hell is this?’ Then you try to explain that you need it to inspire a story and she reaches for the phone and calls the little yellow van.
We all need a space to call our own and writers are no different but there is simply too much clutter here, the space is too small and I dream of a large library, though our house bulges with books I want one of those spaces where people walk in and say, ‘Bloody hell, you like books’. Yes, I do, I so very much do.
Andrew Oldham's Boneyard 
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