Someone has just given me a desk. A kind gesture for sure. But why the importance? After all, I am a storyteller. Which means I stand about telling stories, I don't sit behind a desk.

My mother's desk was hers and hers only. She did not have the "Room of One's Own" so beloved of Virginia Wolf. She had to make do with a desk.

The desk was in the Drawing Room (my parents had aspirations of grandeur), facing the huge bay window with the immense view of the sea in the far away.

She sat at that desk for hours marking papers, writing, reading.

Her desk was her refuge, her space and nobody else ever sat at her desk.

When I turned 15, my father bought me a desk. A fantastic affair. 19th century, english.

Ludicrous, I hear my mother's voice on that day. Jealous. My scriban was infinitely more stylish than her desk. It served me well. All my secrets, my writing, my revisions, my radio, my love letters happened on that desk.

Then, when I left home for good, I left it behind and until then, I had no desk.

A number of years.

So this is why, when my friend gave me a desk, it felt like someone had given me the best treasure in the world. I am writing on this desk now. Can you feel it?

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