A laundry room of one’s own

We are doing some work on the house over the next couple of months. I may end up writing the Alabama version of A Year in Provence. This was something we joked about when we lived in London, that we should do a parody of that genre of wide-eyed reverence for your new domain, fixing up a terraced house in North London, lovely “bloke” stops work to drink “tea.” Edcedra.

We are building a room on top of our garage. This will mean knocking through the little fourth bedroom, a room too small for a double bed, but one that I like to fantasize about as being my room.

This is currently a single-bed guest room where I store my unfinished quilt, my mother’s sewing machine, my father’s scanner and boxes of my unpublished prose. As part of the construction, we are going to re-site the washing machine and so turn my “office” into a hallway and laundry room.

The irony of it.

This is now a room that I will now obsess about, flipping through our remaining magazines to see how to organize laundry, crafts and home office. And thinking about paint color and shelving. Maybe an accent wall. (I know what that is now.)

I will have a surface for folding which could double as a sewing table or more subversively a desk.

Where’s mom?

She doing laundry.

It’s like some kind of reverse women’s liberation joke where I am gaining a room of my own through domestic appliances.


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