A bed is a movable feast
Jun. 4th, 2008 01:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceToday Barry is mostly sleeping on my desk, just overlapping the north-west corner of the keyboard, millimetres from the Esc key. Which, happily, I never use, so at least he isn't getting prodded.
He does get disturbed. Not by the sound of typing, apparently, but when I reach for the dictionary (I cannot spell gouge; every time I need to, I type gouge and then look at it and wonder if it isn't gauge, and have to look it up) or the thermos (until this week, I made one pint of coffee in the mornings if I was planning to stay home, or two pints if I was planning to go to the Lit & Phil with a thermos; now I make two and fill the thermos anyway, on the grounds that it is good to have that second pint hot and available wherever the hell I am, even at my own desk, yay) or the choccy treats (for I am a creature of habit, who broke himself of smoking eight years ago and still needs oral pleasures at his desk: chocolate-coated coffee beans in the mornings with the coffee, charcuterie in the evenings with the wine). The poor boy startles awake at these unexpected knocks and noises, huffs a little, then drills himself a little deeper into the nest of papers and pens and pills that he's made himself.
I should really have cleared the desk of pretty much all these papers and pens and pills; I do like to start a new book with a clear desk, well knowing how cluttered it will become in the process of bookmaking. Which is not to say that I usually do start with a clear desk, but I like it when it happens. I might have done it this time, but that I have been so busy downstairs, clearing out the black hole and making a whole nother scale of mess in the process. If I sort anything, I need to sort that.
Besides which, if I sorted my desk, Baz would have nothing to nest in. Which would be a pity. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer; I like to have my cats within reach. Well within reach.
He does get disturbed. Not by the sound of typing, apparently, but when I reach for the dictionary (I cannot spell gouge; every time I need to, I type gouge and then look at it and wonder if it isn't gauge, and have to look it up) or the thermos (until this week, I made one pint of coffee in the mornings if I was planning to stay home, or two pints if I was planning to go to the Lit & Phil with a thermos; now I make two and fill the thermos anyway, on the grounds that it is good to have that second pint hot and available wherever the hell I am, even at my own desk, yay) or the choccy treats (for I am a creature of habit, who broke himself of smoking eight years ago and still needs oral pleasures at his desk: chocolate-coated coffee beans in the mornings with the coffee, charcuterie in the evenings with the wine). The poor boy startles awake at these unexpected knocks and noises, huffs a little, then drills himself a little deeper into the nest of papers and pens and pills that he's made himself.
I should really have cleared the desk of pretty much all these papers and pens and pills; I do like to start a new book with a clear desk, well knowing how cluttered it will become in the process of bookmaking. Which is not to say that I usually do start with a clear desk, but I like it when it happens. I might have done it this time, but that I have been so busy downstairs, clearing out the black hole and making a whole nother scale of mess in the process. If I sort anything, I need to sort that.
Besides which, if I sorted my desk, Baz would have nothing to nest in. Which would be a pity. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer; I like to have my cats within reach. Well within reach.