I’m writing this in the highest room in our house, right above our garage, with a window looking south over our under-construction driveway, through the macrocarpa trees, and across the valley. I don’t like having my back to a door, so my desk faces away from the window, but is nestled in under a large skylight window we installed many years ago, giving me a view up into some trees where I’m often rewarded with the sight and sound of tui and other birds flitting in and out of the trees.
The wall just to my right is only a metre high, and the angled ceiling swoops up from that wall above my head, meaning that I have to be careful where and when I stand up, in case I clonk my head on one of the beams. The wall to my left is at least four metres high – too high to measure, and the light fitting we have there is also too high for me to change the light bulbs, so currently only two of the four bulbs are working, but the light will be sufficient until it gets down to one lightbulb, when I’ll summon the husband to bring the long ladder!
There are cupboards and bookshelves along that long, tall wall, a credenza behind me, and in front of my desk, there’s a small open area with a small bookshelf and set of drawers. I’m tempted to move one of the bookshelves, and install an armchair or small couch, that would make a nice reading spot in the winter.
There is too much in this room – too many books, bookshelves, and cupboards, too much junk that I want to clean up and my husband wants me to clean up and maybe I’ll get to one of these days. Usually, though, I manage to block it out and focus on the screen and the keyboard and the words I’m typing or the photos I’m organising. These make me happy, and besides, there’s always another day to clean.