It is almost six months since I moved in here. There are two things I really need and they argue in my head about which is more important and so, after six months, I still have neither. One thing is a washing machine. This would obviate the need to resurrect the least creased and soiled clothes from the dirty washing and pass them off as fresh.
The other thing is a table. In my head, life would fall into place if I had a table and, say, some chairs. As if my apartment is an empty receptor and the table is a chemical signal which would enter it. What? Sorry, I haven't even been drinking.
So here are ten things I would do if I had a table:
1. Put that glass dish on it that I have to move every time I open the cupboards. The blue frilly glass one holding keys and parcel tape and safety pins.
2. Eat meals from it. A novel idea, but it is catching on in some places.
3. Encourage other people to eat meals from it. I hear this is called a "dinner party".
4. Put all my papers into three piles, namely: File, Think About, and Bloody Do Something.
5. Put out many index cards and organise the plots of the two novels that wander around in my head like fucking tourists.
6. Actually write something of those two novels for an hour every evening.
7. Sew stuff, when I should actually be writing.
8. Have some surface space to prepare food. My kitchen area is beautiful but has less than a square metre of space for messing about.
9. Fold it away when not in use so that in theory I can dance. I have seen one in the IKEA that does this. No, the table doesn't dance. That would be silly, and probably very expensive.
10. Not spend every moment in front of this computer peering out into lives I cannot quite see.