IT'S A DAD'S LIFE:With the kids banned and the help of feng shui, the office is once again an adult space
MY OFFICE is, today, clear straight lines. Surfaces are empty except for the occasional infringement by something that requires attention if not immediately, then by the weekend.
Six months of bills, bank statements, notes to self, receipts and various school-drawn festive cards have been filed. And not all under ‘F’ for file.
It was getting hard to come in here. Combined with my stinking mess was an increasingly intricate portrayal of creative playing between seven and four year olds. Dolls, blocks, lego, jigsaws and pony magazines combined to form a natural barrier between entry to the room and the actual workplace.
The process was one of seepage. They first spread like the tide over the playroom/spare room. When every inch of floor space there was covered they ventured forth into the living room. Half of that was conquered but, like the Romans in northern Britain, they never quite managed the rest due to distraction from the telly box.
Instead, by osmosis, they and their retinue arrived into my space. I fought it. They can’t come in, they have everywhere else to spread their muck, I said. The denial made it all the more attractive.
As I melt into my keyboard, a four year old appears in doorway, fatigued. Thumb in mouth she wanders in my direction, eventually arriving with a sigh in my lap.
Distracted, I give her some attention, but invariably she realises I’m not what she wants and pushes my face away, slips to floor and departs in search of her mother. I don’t notice she has left something in her wake, a Brat or indelible marker perhaps. These visits are sporadic, but each one leaves a small reminder.
Her sister is more deliberate in her charms. “Look what I made for you daddy!” She offers up a card professing love for her parents in bold oil paints. I accept, delighted, and pin said card to wall.
On her retreat, the paint set is ditched on floor. Over time droppings conjoin and slowly become a pile. Eventually, after a short visit, the younger falls to the ground on her way out and engages with an object of affection from a previous sojourn.
I am occupied elsewhere and don’t object. The precedent has been set. The next time I enter the room I climb over the bodies of both daughters and a handful of friends each and set about my business as their self-evolved creche takes hold. Now I can no longer work alone. As in every other facet of my life, they have invasive privileges.
I fought this. I railed against the kiddification of every square inch of the house but was powerless in the face of temporary incomprehension (standard kiddie defence in such situations) and the missus’s realisation that if they are under my feet, they cannot be under hers.
Last Saturday I found myself present at a talk on feng shui. I had no right to be there, scoffing internally as I was at every second statement pronounced.
The speaker told us feng shui is a very scientific science. How so? Because it’s really old. She also advised us not to place our main working or eating seat in a position with its back facing north. There is, apparently, bad energy currently coming from the north. I was horrified, but she seemed like such a nice woman I stayed for the duration.
And in the end, what she seemed to say was: ‘Get the rubbish out of your way and you might be able to get something done.’ It makes sense, doesn’t it?
Armed with my new-found Eastern sensibility I vowed to shift the rubbish, clear the paths and achieve clarity in my home and thence my creative processes. Barbie got it. The Bratz got it. The building blocks got, well, demolished.
Three black bin-liners full of paper and plastic (separated of course, my chakras would combust if any recyclables were mixed) were launched into the utility room for someone else to sort should they wish to reclaim anything before ditching becomes permanent.
Carpet hoovered, rug beaten, coffee rings wiped, final notice demands hidden, books shelved. Kids out.
I am Michael Collins rising up, reaching for my freedom. In search of a place I can call home, my own, not a place bequeathed unto me by virtue of the generosity of a bunch of Jonny Come Latelies, absentee landlords with their paws out, grasping for more, always more – pasta, DVDs, nougat.
I have retaken the room. It is an adult space again. Derived from an ancient science.