I’ve had cause to take stock recently, and one of my more frivolous realisations is that, despite entitling this blog Tales from the Garret, I’ve never described said garret in any detail. Time to rectify that, I think.
First off, a confession: it’s not a real garret. It’s actually a loft conversion. But it is under the eaves, with the classic sloping ceiling for banging your head on, and is accessed by a wooden ladder. And it’s where I write.
The room is divided in half by a carpet-covered beam on which, in moments of extreme writing avoidance, I have been known to walk along delicately, pretending I’m a Russian gymnast.
On one side is my desk, chair and computer, all quite expensive items, as this is my workplace. The computer has – brace yourself – no internet access. I’ll say that again: no internet access. It’s effectively a top-end electronic typewriter that plays music. This arrangement does wonders for my productivity.
There is a skylite above my desk, allowing me to tip my chair back and stare up at the clouds while I wait for the right word to drop on my head. Around the desk are a couple of pedestals of drawers and at any given moment these, and some of the floor, will be covered in books and papers.
On the other side of the beam is my thinking chair, which is a large and comfortable. It’s also of a shape that allows me to sit normally, sit cross-legged or, if I need a rush of blood to the head, upside down.
One triangle of wall is covered in shelves; the lower shelves are full of books, both mine and reference books including dictionaries and oddments like Gray’s Anatomy, a book on Welsh names, an atlas, dictionaries of Myths and Legends. Higher shelves hold various personal items: my wedding photo, which features more motorbikes than most people’s do; a photo of my dad and two of the dogs I grew up with; a framed Masquerade award from the 1999 Eastercon (yes, I did some cosplay, or as we called it back then, costuming, wanna make something of it?), a set of Tarot cards and the NFU calender, which features male farmers waring nothing but their wellies posing in muddy fields with farm implements and large vegetables.
There may be pictures at a future date (of the garret, not the naked farmers) but for now I’ll leave it to your imagination.