I’m in the middle of moving my office from a spare room (an oxymoron, as the room was really needed for about three other things even before I annexed it as a work space) into a purpose-built building. The new space is awesome, and I’m sitting in my new office writing this. I love it, I’ve room for everything.
At the moment, it’s chaos. I have stuff everywhere, all the files, paper, stationery, periodicals, gadgets and office detritus still to be sorted and stored. I’ve unearthed the essentials—laptop, phone, post-its, pens—and bought some plants and now I just don’t want to know about the crates and piles of miscellanea. I’ll get to them. I will.
But even the clutter and the silent reproach of the unsorted crates can’t take away the happiness of having this place to work. A place to write. I am grateful to have it and I reckon in about three months everything will be sorted and the knock-on effect will be bliss—more space in the house, less clutter, less time spent trying to find things.
So we will progress from chaos to bliss. If only I didn’t have to get past those damn crates to get there.