My office is set up on our weirdly large landing (weirdly large because we made it so, knocking down a bathroom to open up and balance the space).
It’s a lovely area, light, bright and airy but it’s not working for me as a workspace.
It’s light and bright because it’s got a one-and-a-half-height ceiling with huge skylight.
It’s airy because it overlooks the stairs and our weirdly large hallway below (already in existence when we moved in).
I’ve filled it full of plants and art and it feels serene and welcoming.
Until I try to focus.
Now, we don’t have kids, just a senior dog and an even more senior cat, and by mid-morning they’re both settled in for the duration.
While the dog does get a bit shouty when her boss – supreme pack walk leader, Sophie – arrives to pick her up twice a week, and while the cat – who is profoundly deaf – does tend to patrol the house yelling from time to time, the only other ongoing noise is that of my dear husband, endlessly yapping on teams calls from dawn ‘til dusk, with his man voice, in his office down the hall.
So it’s not the noise, specifically.
The skylight is positioned in such a way that, as lunchtime approaches, it does somewhat feel like I’ve set up a desk on the surface of the sun, but we have bought a solar-powered roller blind and, one day I’m sure, we’ll actually put it up. I tend to take a long lunch anyway (I do like a siesta)
So it’s not the light, specifically.
I face the wall with my back to the rest of the landing, which is not optimal (and there’s no other reasonable configuration, I’ve tried) but, as I say, we have no kids passing through and the husband rarely leaves his yapping desk unless there’s an emergency or the possibility of a tuna-cheese melt.
So it’s not lack of privacy, specifically.
My work involves thinking, then writing, then thinking some more.
And sometimes, to think, you need to let your mind drift a bit.
I struggle with having no view – looking up through the skylight only really gives me a 1m2 weather report.
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One element of my visual impairment means that when I close my eyes, it gets brighter, not darker. And the associated tinnitus means there’s always some racket in the background.
When I can’t sleep, which isn’t that often these days, I put on an eye mask and stuff foam earplugs into my ears.
Not because it’s genuinely loud, or bright, but as a way of letting my brain know that any ‘input’ keeping me alert and unable to drop off is internal, not external.
It’s a signal to my mind that I can ignore everything else, for now.
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I read a post on Instagram just yesterday (https://www.instagram.com/p/DVkuvbXDA3r/?img_index=1 @tttoffical) that said:
there’s a line from virginia woolf that has lived rent-free in my head for years,
“a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”
she was talking about permission.
because women were rarely allowed space that belonged entirely to them. their rooms were kitchens, living rooms, shared bedrooms, places where they were always needed by someone else. a woman’s life was designed around being available.
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And I think it’s a similar issue.
Being sat on the landing, in the middle of the house – even as devoid of ‘real’ interruptions as mine is – keeps me ‘on alert’.
One slice of my senses is continually scanning, listening out for something, always ready to leap up out of my chair, feed a dog, comfort a cat, answer the door.
Those times when I genuinely need my thinking mind to drift, to make connections with ideas, to come up with sentences that best encapsulate what I want to say, have nothing to catch on to.
No birds, no butterflies, no swaying trees. Nothing to briefly hypnotise my conscious mind while my subconscious gets to work.
Instead I sit there like a human Roomba, waiting for my next task.
—
Today I’ve moved all my stuff down to the dining room.
The garden is very much a work in progress, so my view is not one of an idyllic lake district cottage garden (yet).
But I can see birds pottering about building nests. I can see the way the sunlight changes on my neighbours’ roofs. I can see my doddery old cat drinking water out of the frog pond (despite there being perfectly clean water in a bowl, next to it).
I can close the dining room door.