I had just been for my weekly visit to the localish library (behold my resplendent self-control), and was proceeding to depart the carpark in the usual manner, i.e. in a car, when I beheld a warning light upon the dashboard.
Lit up in red, the combination of a pictogram and a numeral, the warning light was there to inform me that the front seat passenger did not have their seatbelt on.
This was a matter of concern. Not because of the increased danger to life and limb caused by an absence of seatbelt-wearing, nor even because the driver of a car containing an unseatbelted person (if under 15) can be fined for the omission. No. This was a matter of concern because I was alone in the car.
But what my desk says about me is Quite A Lot, and not all of it flattering. So here is the dirt the desk would dish: seven things one can deduce about me from my desk – or at least the top of it, because even I cannot give you a clear account of what exactly I have in the cupboard and drawers thereof (which tells you something about me all by itself).
If there’s one thing I enjoy doing, it’s moving the furniture. Plotting future moves is almost as much fun.
Earlier this year I cooked up a delicious plan in which work desks (2) would be moved out of the living room into the kitchen, and the dining table would be moved into the living room, where it could enrich its life by doubling as a sewing table, writing table, games table, etc, etc, without being surrounded by cold air (the kitchen faces south-east) and the smells of cookery.