A room of one's own

Elder daughter has now been in residence for two weeks. Tomorrow, she will emerge from the sofa corner she's been inhabiting in a modified self-isolation, and will venture into places like the kitchen and the laundry-room.

What has become evident is that, with elder daughter here for the foreseeable future, and the Resident Fan Boy working from home for a similar length of time, and no coffee shops, we really need a working area separate from the living area.

The Resident Fan Boy spotted a notice at our favourite second-hand furniture shop, offering "viewing appointments". He made one, and I shuffled the row of totes, laundry baskets, high-boy, and television stand along the eastern wall of our bedroom, and found a space of just under four feet.

The lady at the shop has been home for about six weeks, and has a case of what I'm going to call "pandemic patter". My mother has noticed it when she calls around for her church. Elder daughter noticed it when having a Zoom chat with a group of Hades pals that lasted three hours. The sun was gone when she staggered in from our patio, where she'd gone for privacy.

Furniture shop lady chatted and chatted. Her daughter's boyfriend has moved in, and while he's lovely, she's wondering if he's ever going to leave. She got yelled at by an elderly man at the grocery store, who charged her with his shopping cart, hands trembling on the bar, and bellowed: "She's hogging the meat counter!!"

We understood the garrulousness, and, because it was a furniture store, we sat down.

We've acquired a charming old secretary desk. The top folds down into a plain table, but contains two deepish small drawers, and little slots that could accommodate cheque-sized envelopes. It might be a great place to store theatre tickets -- if theatres ever open again.

I discovered that the desk can line up to the far east corner of the window, so I can get a breath of fresh air and gaze out past the plantations outside. Our floor is slightly subterranean, so I see the flowering shrubs at eye level and beyond, masked people walking their dogs on the sidewalk.

At seven in the evening, the pots and pans will bang in tribute to the health care workers, and I'll hear the clamour, like scores of distant bells.