The Writing Desk

The Resident Chef (also known as the Husband, or Mr. T, for short) couldn’t understand my insistence on a writing desk.

“Can’t you use the new work desk we’ve just bought?” he asked, referring to the functional black table with grey legs. Just a few days old and yet every inch of it was covered with an assortment of papers, visiting cards, post-its, laptop wires, extension cords and more. If that was a work desk, there wasn’t space to get any work done.

But it wasn’t just the clutter that was the issue. I’d set my heart on owning a writing desk for a long time. And not just any old table, but a nice solid wood, antique desk, with little shelves and cubbyholes, and maybe an inkwell or two. The kind that would be at home in an English study, replete with a fireplace, a cozy armchair and tall shelves filled with leather bound books.

In anticipation of the desk, I’d christened the smaller bedroom in our new home, the Study. I’d even picked the spot where the desk would be placed – at a corner in the room with a window on the left, a window in front, and an almost uninterrupted view of the gorgeous sky. If you lived in a city teeming with high-rises, you’d know how priceless a view that can be.

It took a lot of cajoling on the part of Mr. T to convince me that a solid wood desk wouldn’t quite fit into our modern minimalist décor. Also he pointed that the ‘study’ would be doubling up as the guest bedroom, and so the ‘chintz armchair with footstool’ would have to make way for a more practical sofa-cum-bed.

Many sulks later, I found myself staring at a somewhat workable solution to our marital conflict. It was an unbelievably compact, tidy white desk from IKEA. It had one shelf under the desk, presumably to tuck away the laptop when one wanted to indulge in good, old-fashioned, long-hand writing. It also featured a tiny little drawer to squirrel away pens, bookmarks and other essential stationery. But its best feature was further below. A thoughtfully provided broad footrest, something that’s absolutely vital when you’re blessed with a petite frame and your lower limbs can’t find the floor. At work, I would thrust my feet over the CPU, and in some cases, the dustbin even, in an attempt to be comfortable.

Mr. T, the indulgent husband that he is, sighed deeply and wrestled the flat packed desk onto the trolley. He even assembled it when I wasn’t home, no mean feat when you see the impossible illustrations in the IKEA assembly manual.

“I hope you’re going to write after all this,” he mumbled, as I gushed about his handiwork.

“Of course, I will,” I declared. “It’s just the inspiration I’ve needed.”