When I lived in a council flat in London, I'd managed to sort myself out this smart little area that I called my office. It wasn't an office - it was infact a cupboard in the hallway that backed onto the lift shaft. Most people would have used it as an additional wardrobe, but I had bigger plans for it. When I moved in, I told everyone that it was going to be my office, and everyone laughed, Not everyone sees space in the same way; my spatial awareness is particularly acute.

It was a typical council flat (read: small) with every spare corner made into a cupboard of some sort. And I love that concept; no space is wasted. As you can see, the cupboard hardly had a huge presence, most people walked straight past it, as to the right was the front door.

Yet open the doors, switch on the lamps, and there you have an office. And I loved it. It contained everything I needed it to, and when I'd finished, I could close the doors on it and go relax in the front room. It was only a one bedroom flat (anyone familiar with local authority housing knows you don't get more than you need) so this space gave me the extra thinking room that I needed. Admittedly it got cold in winter, sitting right next to the drafty front door, but what's a bit of cold when you have all this extra room?

That was the last time I had a space of my own. I don't need much, just somewhere that I can call mine, somewhere that I don't have to share, somewhere where I can leave my work safely, knowing it'll be there, intact, when I come back to it. Everyone else around me has a space, albeit an office or bedroom or shed or such, and as much as I love living as we do, this is one thing that I miss most, and is the one thing that would help more than anything else. 

Each of my books, and each of my patterns, has been designed, knitted, written and published from a small spot on the sofa. Can you imagine what I'd achieve if I had some space of my own?

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AuthorWoolly Wormhead