A Room of My Own

I HAVE a room of my own! Well, actually it is a corner of the attic, just beneath the window, but it is my space, where I can sit surrounded by the books which line the walls.

The Man of the House cleared out some of the electrical paraphernalia that cluttered the floor – you know the kind of thing, old televisions, computer screens, a keyboard, lots of wires, speakers, pocket CD players, mobile phones…

Initially he insisted ‘there’s nowt wrong’ with them (he gets very northern in moments of high emotion) but he eventually conceded they did not work and were therefore of no use to anyone. So out they went.

Then it was my turn to clear some space. With a heavy heart I culled some of the books (mainly to make space for more, but I am hoping he hasn’t realised that). I always hate getting rid of books, but there were volumes I knew I would never read again. Why, for example, did I keep my A-Level geography books? Did I really want to read about weather systems, glaciated mountain scenery or vulcanicity? And was that slender but learned tome on the Thirty Years War really necessary?

So out they went: some to the charity shop and others, alas, to the tip because they were shedding pages and were no longer readable.

Anyway, back to my room. The Man of the House has bought me a corner desk, a swivel chair on wheels (I had forgotten how much fun they can be) and a proper computer (but I still have my trusty laptop as well). In addition I have acquired Younger Daughter’s printer, a little lamp, a radio (I cannot work without Radio 4) and Elder Daughter has contributed a pink waste paper bin.

Then there is even a little sofa where I can sit and read – with a fluffy Bagpuss to keep me company.

Now I am turning it into a little pink eyrie. I discovered a box of pink bits and pieces (candles, ornaments, cushions) left over from The Daughters’ Barbie phase, when their most treasured possessions were pink, fluffy and sparkly.



And I am scouring charity shops and chain stores for bargains. So far I have snapped up a pink metal jug, some artificial flowers, tea light holders, a throw for the sofa, windchimes to hang from the beams, a pink feather boa, files and a box of document drawers.

Now pink is not normally a colour I would use to decorate a room, but it is so cheerful I have decided to release my inner ‘girlie’.

I can sit up there to do my secretarial work for the Credit Union, and some writing, and my OU work.

Through the window, which faces west, I can see rooftops, chimneys, trees (it’s far greener than it looks at ground level), clouds and sunsets.

The Daughters think I have finally flipped (shades of the Jenny Joseph poem spring to mind) but the Man of the House has his shed, where he escapes for a quiet smoke and some peace and quiet. He has turned it into a miniature sitting room, with a comfy chair, portable TV, books and curtains!

So now I have my little space as well. Virginia Woolf would have approved, I feel. In her extended essay A Room of One’s Own she maintains that a woman must have money and ‘a room of her own’ if she is to write fiction.

I lack the money, but I have the ‘room’ so I can sit and be creative and write that great novel – or, at the very least, a short story.

Getting on with My Life

TODAY was the last day of my college course, which has left me feeling a little sad. For just over nine months my studies have given my days a shape and structure, to say nothing of getting my brain back into gear.

When I enrolled for an Office Skills course at my local college I was so nervous I almost abandoned it before I started.

At that point my self-esteem was at rock-bottom. No-one, it seemed, wanted a redundant, ageing, technophobic journalist.

Not only was I singularly ill-equipped for a change of career, but it was 30 years or more since I had been involved in any kind of formal learning process and I wasn't sure how I would cope with being back in the classroom.

I needn't have worried, however. The support from staff and other students was fantastic. I loved every minute of the course.  I enjoyed the challenge of learning something new, of seeking and recording information, and am immensely proud of myself for gaining qualifications in ITQ and Business Administration.

Much to my surprise, I discovered computers are not scary or difficult - they are fun and I really enjoy using them.

Once today's text processing exam was over I felt a sense of anti-climax but my spirits revived thanks to a lovely lunch with Romantic Novelist Phillipa Ashley (see her excellent blog and website at http://phillipa-ashley.com/).

And, as an added bonus, The Daughters presented me with flowers and a 'congratulations' card, which was really touching and thoughtful.

Now I feel as if I have finally drawn a line under redundancy and can get on with the rest of my life.

I'm hoping to use my new-found skills by doing some 'temping', I am considering taking another course, I can enjoy the company of my family, I have embroidery to do, books to read, family friends to meet, and the garden to finish.

And I can do all these things at my own pace, in my own time because I want to do them - not because I have to.

Tuesday's Wednesday Whinge

OK, I know, it isn’t Wednesday, it’s Tuesday.  But it's almost Wednesday (I expect it will be Wednesday when you read this) and it is a Whinge.

All I wanted to do was to print my updated CV (in case you are wondering, no, I haven’t got a job yet, but I did register with an agency).

But would the computer let me? No, it would not. First it informed there was no black ink, so I took the cartridge out, shook it about, then put it back. This trick works sometimes, but not, alas, today.

So I thought I would fool it by colouring the text – a nice bright red was what I had in mind. But another message flashed up on the screen, saying I needed black and colour cartridges and would I like to order them online…

Convinced the electronic equipment was lying, and that there must be some secret combination of keys which, when pressed correctly, would make the printer leap into action, I continued to issue commands.

But my efforts were useless, so eventually I headed off to buy cartridges.

I arrived at a major electrical retailer, and had barely crossed the threshold – indeed, I was still on the welcome mat – when I was accosted by an aggressive assistant demanding to know if she could help me.

Now I am the first to complain if shop workers ignore me when I want buy something, but it would be nice if they let you walk on to the sales floor before jumping out at you.

And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, when I replied ‘just browsing’ she barked back: “What for?” The answer ‘nothing’ failed to satisfy her and, glaring at me with steely eyes, she insisted I MUST be looking for SOMETHING.

By this stage I was so terrified I couldn’t remember my own name, let alone what I needed - I’ll bet the Spanish Inquisition were gentler on their victims – so I turned and fled.

Gathering my scattered wits together, I managed to purchase the cartridges from a friendly, helpful assistant in another retail outlet, and returned home.

But my troubles were only just beginning, because opening the packaging proved well nigh impossible. The whole thing was encased in a rigid plastic container which defied all my efforts to prise it apart. Scissors wouldn’t dent it and the carving knife wouldn’t pierce it. I shook it, hammered it, banged it on the table, threw it at the wall, and even shrieked: “Open Sesame!”.

Finally, however,I did manage to wrench the plastic off, then wrestled my way through layers of cardboard and foil to reach the contents.

Now, all I need to do is to remember which way round the cartridges go, press print and - it works!

The Wednesday Whinge

FOR a while, after I was made redundant, I wrote a Grumpy Old Woman column which, much to my surprise, was favourably received by kind friends and acquaintances.


Now, having taken a leap into cyberspace with Facebook, Blog and Twitter, I am reviving my venomous views on the vicissitudes of life in the Wednesday Whinge.

All comments will be gratefully received – I would like to know someone is reading my efforts, and some of your suggestions may provide inspiration fr future postings.

It’s a chance for me to moan and groan about the many things that irritate me (washing up, loud music, trains that don’t run on time, litter, vandals, apostrophes in the wrong place) and how things are not what they were when I was young.

So, while this may be written with the aid of modern technology, I am accompanying it with a picture of a typewriter, partly because I am in nostalgic mood – and partly as a tribute to the once-great newspaper industry.

Besides, it was always easier to work up a string of invective while bashing away on the keys of this ‘ancient’ machine. As an added bonus unsatisfactory literary efforts could be ripped out, scrunched into a ball, and hurled across the room.

And who needed anger management when you could work off ill-humour and aggression by banging the typewriter up and down on your desk? You can’t do that with a computer!

Traditional newsroom typewriters, covered in protective layers of cigarette ash, Tippex, and food crumbs stood up to a remarkable amount of ill-treatment and, unlike computers, never, ever answered back.

They didn’t produce any of those high-tech messages that mysteriously appear on my screen. You know the kind of thing: “An unknown website wants to open a programme on your computer…”

Or: “Do you really want to delete this file and its contents?” Somehow, this always sounds disapproving, and makes me feel I must be doing something wrong.

Worse still are the notifications stating that the programme is ‘not responding’ and closing it may result in the loss of unsaved data. So what am I supposed to do? Abandon the computer? Force quit? Try to carry on regardless?

Then there are the passwords. Whether it is due to old age and decreptitude or whether, like Pooh, I am a bear of very little brain, I do not know, but I cannot remember passwords – and even when I do get it right, the computer still insists I am wrong and denies me access.

And selecting a password is a nightmare, prompting all kinds of responses from my electronic guide. A simple ‘Open Sesame’ will not suffice. The magical command has to be alphanumeric (with words and numbers). Better still, it should have a mix of upper and lower case characters, as well as symbols. I key in gibberish, and up pops another communication, warning me that my choice poses a high security risk because it is not strong enough.

What a prune!

I never had these problems with my trusty old typewriter – although the entire carriage did once fall off when I pressed the return lever….