Last weekend, I succumbed to the siren call of that desk (or his cousin) while passing by an English Butler outlet. I saw the object of my desire. It was signalling to me from inside the store. "Remember me?" he whispered, "Come closer. Play with my pull-out writing surface. You know you want to play with my drawers."
I paused in front of it. I stroked the dark wooden surface, opened the drawers and pulled at the knobs with visions of getting this beauty into my bedroom. All I had for a writing surface in my tiny room was a folding table which had recently disappeared, being borrowed by a resident budding artist.
This was not an impulse purchase, dear readers. It was more of ... an obsessive love affair.
I had been coveting this desk for years, every time I'd walk by that store. If it wasn't near the front, I'd find myself craning my neck to see if it was somewhere at a side wall, hidden by the frivolous ornaments, candles and tapestry.
Once the sales clerk confirmed that they could deliver, I was at the precipice to purchase. My justification? I had recently come into some coin plus needed a private place to write in my journal, to store stationery and books that were cluttering my tiny bedroom.
My other justification was that due to the other procurement demands and errands of the day, I did not have time to study the PMBoK - something I tried to do on a weekly basis after escaping our crowded apartment for a visit to the local library. Other than the dining table, there was no other decent place for studying.
So there it sits, waiting for me to organize my books, stationery and files into its mouth and belly. I'll save that activity for tonight - in-between loads of laundry. I lead such an exciting life...
Thank you for reading this far. If you like my writing style, you may also enjoy reading "The Year of the Rabbit - a novel about Fate, Family and Forgiveness".
T
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