I'm hiding

I'm upstairs hiding, in the room in which I do my writing. My own personal room, that is. My own personal space - where I flee to escape the woes of the world. And which my beloved cleaned yesterday, while I was at work. Without informing me. The nerve of the woman. Thirty six years of marriage and she still thinks she has free run of the house!!

    Now I don't know where anything is.

    She has no conception that it's taken me months, nay years to get it this messy. Cups balanced precariously on the edge of my tables are crucial ingredients to my filing system. Why, doesn't she know that you don't just go marauding into someone else's room and clean it with gay abandon without at least giving a month or two's notice. Some of my stuff is lost forever now. Admittedly my litter bin was a tad crammed, but that just made it easier to lean on whilst cogitating my next masterpiece. She even, she actually dusted. I didn't know the walls were yellow, and furthermore cared even less. Now their alarming hue is spoiling all my concentration and ruining the mood.

    I know it's been a while since I put (metaphorical) pen to paper, to write, but that doesn't matter. I had the snippets of at least five novels happily germinating under things in here. I would have got to them eventually. 

    Now they're all gone.

    Admittedly she did discover my tablet pen, which I'd mistakenly been using to stir my tea for two weeks, but that doesn't matter. The actual nerve of the woman.  My only solace is that she's downstairs watching (against my kindly advice) Warhorse. I tried to tell her that someone was bound to get irritated if they actually blew a lot of real horses into tiny fragments just to make a film but she wouldn't listen. Her sobs are enough to wake the dead, or curdle my tea - I don't know which is worse.