This occasionally feels impossible. I’ve got three projects going right now, and all of them have to happen in a tiny bindery under a lofted bed. Without really acknowledging it, we are starting to talk about moving into a bigger flat. Until that day, however, I’ve got to find a way to keep a lot of things going at once in a very small space. Sometimes the crush of this little hole of a bindery makes me feel itchy and crazy. Last week while I was hunting around for some clean square footage to work on, I found something horrible.
England, you have some nice things on offer. I like the public footpaths, for example. I like the health care. I like The Archers. But there is a price to pay. Everything is wet here. And it is cold. And it is moldy, moldy, moldy. Mold is the book-killer. And here it was, quietly sneaking up on my ingenious paper storage area like kudzu taking a farmer’s field.
Thank god I found it in time, but it cost me a full day of work. I scrubbed the walls. I ransacked the apartment for more storage (blood from a stone.) I spent £30 (roughly fifteen hundred bucks*) on shipping tubes. I cranked up the heat, left everything open and clean, and got on with what was left of the day.
Things feel a little better this week than last week and nothing valuable is smooshed against a damp, exterior wall. But someday in the not too distant future, I am going to have to start working in a bigger space. It can’t go on this way forever. Over and out.
*that was a hilarious joke and not an accurate currency conversion.