Don't. Don't say a word . Hah, as if! You're a pretty silent lot.
Anyway I am sitting in my bay window, which in conditions like this is shear madness, and encrusted in layers, from base to outer and a few more in between. I am surrounded by supermarket bags-for-life which are great for heaving around project work. But winter's shadowy fingers (thanks Alan) have a way of caressing without permission and when you think you've got every conceivable place covered, somehow they get in. So stick on another layer. OK I do have my desk and chair in the coldest place in the house, bar the back toilet. Madness I know. It's the bay window in the room that is laughingly called the office. I have tidied myself into that space to lessen the impact of the rest of me, those bits which will not be denied, the towers and turrets, of important things which can't be chucked, though Colin would possibly disagree on that. He has his own towers and turrets mind you, so let's not pretend he's mister tidy or anything. The only thing different is that they're smaller and alphabetised....we still have to step lightly over and around things. CD cases are the main casualties if we don't step lightly enough.
I need a secretary. I need someone to tell me to answer letters and rearrange shelves, so that the contents can actually be seen; to sift through and file (into the bin if necessary) those things from five years ago, that school project from three months ago, the stuff from a course I went on a hundred years ago, and a thousand words from a thousand songs which lie like plates on the floor. I need someone to tell me that what I do is worthwhile. That all these other things I do to keep the wolf from my door whilst waiting for a break which may never come, are indeed worthwhile. Pah! Put on another layer and stop moaning, woman. It's the cold talking. My day will come. My break. Wag wag, thump thump. I have a dog who is loyal and faithful and loves me unconditionally, loves my work, hangs on my every word and knows that one day, one day...
OK I haven't got a dog. He's just this Labrador that I once took out walking and wished he was mine. He snuffed it some time ago, actually. But if he was, if that dog was mine, that's what he'd say, because, of course I would understand everything and we'd commune over a skinny latte in the kitchen which I believe I am envied for (it has a different colour on each wall and a red fridge and oven.) I think I'm losing it now. Another layer on. And hey, another snowflake twirling down
Don't you just love all this? Answers on a post card. In your own time. Of course. But Christmas is just around the corner. A big pressie for me would be a little hello from you.