I like to imagine that my home office is sleek, stylish, calming and thoroughly professional. It features IKEA's top of the range office furniture, the walls are painted in 'pebble', a matching 'pebble' lampshade is on the desk, identical clear folders house my numerous magazines and I even have some framed awards and press coverage on the walls. And did I mention the little venetian blinds that sit in the windows which in turn look out onto our English country garden. It should be idyllic right?
Then how come I also have 24 coloured crayons scattered across the floor, some spaceship pyjamas that have been pee'd in lying in the corner and several plastic cars garaging in my paperclip holder? How come my staples have been freed of their stapler home so that their sole purpose is to lie hidden in the carpet pile, waiting to pierce my bare feet? Why does the aforementioned carpet have a luminous green bit care of a magic marker? Did the pull cords for the venetian blinds always resemble a tangled knot? When did pirate plasters and pop up books make it onto the desk top must have list? And how did the wall get that long, dark scratch mark on it?
Of course I know the answers to all of these questions. The culprits are two small boys who need to find something creative to do while mummy is taking a work call.
But the lack of order cannot be blamed on them entirely. There's also the vast pile of household paperwork which really should get filed at some point before it becomes so dated its not worth doing. The leaning tower of CDs which my husband believes he'll one day upload onto the computer (whose computer - not mine surely? The poor thing staggers along with a minimal amount of memory as it is.) That's not the only pile belonging to husband dear. Let's not forget the vast stack of 'Very Important Documents That Must Be Saved In Case They Are One Day Needed And Can't Possibly Be Thrown Out Or The End Of The World Might Come'.
I am not faultless. Sadly. Because I never have enough time to get through all my work, I never let the cleaner in to clean. So dust bunnies are breeding and running amok. I accumulate coffee mugs. And let's just say that that although I have very good filing intentions, the things that need to get filed seem to manage to break free of their confines on a fairly regular basis.
Every now and then I have an office blitz. For a few shiny, golden hours it looks like a sanctuary where creativity and success frolick gaily about. And then the slide into anarchy begins and before you know it, my lovely office looks as though a small hurricane has blown through it leaving toys, papers, dirty dishes and spiderman underpants in its wake.
All of which is why I don't use a webcam.