Thursday, 15 November 2012

Desk processes

I have nothing better to do while dinner cooks, so let's see the creative process in action. Yes, it's Desk Round Up!

Squirrel. Off in some corner, making wings. Leaving on desk an assortment of cut-up fairy costumes, Chinese scissors (mine, pilfered from my secret scissor stash), a bundle of wood shavings from her experiments in whittlings, ABC books she is making for teaching unicorns to read, plus a dictionary, because I am on at her about inner resources, self-improvement, and being able to spell the word knocking, which came up the other day, and which she had as konking.

Tiger. Presently a sort of brooding half-woman, nesting on the sofa, taking personal possession of every available cushion. Seizing by force, in particular, the fluffy one, plus my treasured red cashmere shawl and, indeed, all the souls of the unwary who pass by. Mark, you innocent travellers betwixt front-room bookcase and kitchen cupboard. Know my words. Tiger will grab you, snap your bones, chew on your sinews, and spit out your spinal fluid. Otherwise, you will find her simply charming. But should you ever doubt your place in her hierarchy, the gold-covered creation you see on her desk with the title picked in gold beads is the book called Law.

Shark. Usual fish chemicals, liquid paint squirted into bottletops even though I have told her to use proper pallets, calligraphy brushes, bits of paper ornated in indecipherable scribble, plus daddy's old computer, which she managed to drop in Hong Kong while manipulating fish books, and it has never been the same since. Now it only works if it faces North and is plugged into a power socket, permanently. She has not learned from that experience, clearly. Note the liquid paint waiting to spill out the bottletops. Shark, meanwhile, is evading the mother-talk about liquid paint and computers and is squatting on the step into the garden, burning holes in paper. Let us close the (wooden) doors on her, and leave her to hopefully not set my nudiflorum alight.

Dig. You don't see Dig's desk, unless you wish to see me divorced, living in penury in a bedsit above an offy in Maida Vale.

Grit. Desk not worth the glance, covered as it is in leather off-cuts and empty cans of zero-alcohol lager. How I wish it were otherwise: that the lager could be a decent glass of red or maybe a small pre-dinner champagne.

This, however, is what came off my desk. Smugly, I can glory in product, rather than process.

Find Me Diamonds, the diamond hunter's notebook. Lovely, lovely stone, studded with a real fake diamond.

Soft wrapping suede cover, plain inside. It had to be, because a thought can turn either way. And life is made of stone and diamond, as sung I am told by a Mr John Denver.

Bagged up and ready to go.

Now, if that is burning I can smell, then the dinner process is done, and hopefully we will find a leek and potato product.

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