Spare ‘Oom or War Drobe – You Decide
Ah Yes. The spare room.
A bijou space where I can sit quietly on a large pink velvet chair, engrossed in a book, sipping a large cup of Earl Grey on a sunny Sunday morning as my husband potters about the kitchen making bacon sarnies for breakfast and where the dogs, my loyal furry friends, curl up at my feet.
It’s a light space, with a large window that overlooks our front garden. A space where I can watch birds meet and have their feast on whatever insects they dig up.
In this little corner of our pad is a dressing table, a tall boy and a pink velvet chair. On the dressing table is a mirror, a lamp, a hairdryer and a hairbrush. It’s a simple layout designed to keep my morning routine hassle free. My makeup is stored in the desk drawer, neat and tidy. Just above the dressing table is a shelf that displays 3 bottles of perfume and the first birthday card my husband gave to me.
It’s a cute little space. I call it Spare ‘Oom or War Drobe.
The latter is more appropriate.
The truth of the matter is that the spare room looks like a fucking whirlwind has blazed through.
On top of the tall boy is a pile of art supplies that I haven’t used in about 2 weeks. On the floor is a basket full of bottles, potions, and lotions which I haven’t used lately but I might just need one day. There are 3 bags that I regularly rotate. These are squashed under a pile of clean clothes that I couldn’t be bothered to fold and put away 4 days ago. There is a half-chewed dog treat and tennis ball left abandoned under the dressing table. There is a single boot, which isn’t even mine and the curtains aren’t fully open because the bit on the curtain pole that makes the curtains slide easily is missing and I haven’t been bothered to climb onto the chair to unstick the curtain. On the table itself are some books, a small easel and some other paint brushes, along with a cup which should have been placed into the dishwasher a while ago.
Once a month I get a bug up my ass and sweep through this room moving everything out, and then putting everything back in, just in a slightly different arrangement.
This morning, I opened the door to War Drobe and stepping over an odd sock I shove the pile of clean laundry slightly to the left, then search for the hairbrush which is there somewhere and squeeze myself into the chair because there isn’t enough room to move the chair back because of the clean pile of clothes along with the hair towel I’ve just thrown onto the heap so that I can dry my hair and at least look half way put together.
One of the dogs is barking at me just because I’m not ready on his timetable and I’m about to lose my shit. The mirror isn’t in the spot it needs to be and instead of moving it back into its rightful space, because that would mean having to stop what I’m doing and move everything on the table out of the way, I crane my neck to get a better view to dry my hair.
Yes. It’s a cute little space.
Bijou.
My Best Life 