BloggerStock: The Story of What is On Your Desk

Hey All! I finally got my post from my partner Rob at Go Forth and Bloggeth for Bloggerstock. It’s posted for your reading pleasure below :) Oh, and the reason why it was late? He was battling evil something-or-others in the hospital, so I guess I’ll let him pass this time.

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Here is my entry for the Bloggerstock event. What is Bloggerstock? Well, Bloggerstock links bloggers from around the world. They give you a topic to write about and then pair you with another blogger who allows your post to be displayed on their blog. Thank you to Kara for allowing me to write on her blog for this event.

The Story of What’s On My Desk

As I don’t really own a desk or use one for work, I am about to tell you the fascinating story of what is on the table I use to hold my laptop and various foods that I wrangle throughout the day.

Currently sitting alongside my laptop as I type this post is a notepad containing various mysterious scribblings that probably made no sense within five minutes of their writing, especially if the “two tickets to paradise?” scrawled on the top page is anything to go on.

The worktable is my mission control centre. Unlike those simpletons at NASA, I am able (forced) to work while my mission control centre is invaded by cats and assorted creatures. It is the place where I am most productive.

There is a lamp placed on the left-hand corner of my mission control centre. This lamp reminds me of my Grandmother. When she stays with us, she would turn every light off before going to bed, not believing our protestations that we also might need this light to see, after her self-imposed 8pm darkness deadline.  So, as I look at this lamp, I remember the one night where I kept coming downstairs into a pitch-black basement tripping over cats and other creatures attempting to find my mission control centre with any soft part of my body, usually though my shins were the best at this fun game.

I turned the lamp on maybe three times after repeated trips up and downstairs and then on the fourth time, after again returning to complete darkness, I turned around and stormed back up stairs and, as my brother was the only one home, I asked him nicely, “Could you please stop turning off the light? It is becoming quite bothersome.” (Not my actual words).  As he stumbled his way through a confused response, I felt a tap on my shoulder.  It was my Grandmother. As I turned around, she pointed at my chest and said “Listen here; how do you turn your computer machine off? I tried pressing some buttons but it wouldn’t do anything. It’s too bright down there with that thing on.” I suppose I was lucky my shin was the only casualty of that evening, and not the essay that I had been working on for the past month.

This mission control centre is also the place where I pretend I can read. There are two books that lay unread on the far right corner of this desolate land of wood; one, Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, and the other; a collection of stories by H.G. Wells. I always like the idea of reading these great novels and then, on arriving home and proud of my purchase I become lost in a sea of whirling YouTube videos featuring cats walking on two legs and bloopers from The Office. Best intentions and all that. I’m sure Ayn and H.G would understand. Well, H.G, probably would anyway.

Sure, it’s just a table with some books, a computer, a notepad, and .. I wanna say an old banana peel?.. on it, but it’s what I’m used to ; and, for as long as it’s around, it will always be the setting for my hardest fought working battles,  longest forays into the internet world and of course, our most intimate of encounters ; the old shin high-five for a job well done when my Grandmother comes to stay.

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And be sure to check out my post over on Alex’s page!

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