Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Walnut and brass
For years I wrote in a cupboard, squeezed in behind the ironing board and boxes of assorted crap. Then I moved to a ramshackle house and built my own desk out of bits I'd found in the street. It rocked, and not in a good way.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, I present - my grandfather's desk. It's a beautiful thing, no? I remember sitting at it with him, the room full of must and pipe smoke and stacks of papers cascading onto the floor. He was probably trying to explain racing form to my 5 year old bewildered self. Now it's ensconced in my living room, waiting for attention.
It's walnut, with brass handles and brass feet. A leather top that is covered in coffee stains and perished to soft rag. The kind of desk you feel you have to live up to. I'm about to go and start laying out paper on it - ideas for stories, drafts, notes. I feel like the smell of ancient history will seep into the work - and I feel like I'm at one of those growing-up stages again. I shall make coffee, for tradition's sake, and smoke a lot of tobacco. Listen to the echoes in my head. Wish me luck...
Update: That was then. These days it has more um ... character* ...
*crap piled on top of it. And a daylight bulb so I don't get scurvy.