I might put my terracotta-coloured sofa there, and the overgrown monster cheeseplant there, where it can get the sunlight through the bay window.
Also feels rather like a sabbatical, this free year, this great gift, the carrot on the stick, the best-ever Christmas-tree present that kept me trudging through last year, lecturing, marking, writing, editing, giving papers. What to do with it now that it's here? Here and ticking away, my gloomy self says, here to be grabbed and eaten up, says my sane self. Write that novel, the one you've planned, the one you think about in bed at night. Walk in the park kicking leaves, go to the cinema during the day to watch gloomy, sexy French films, lie on the polkadotted woollen bed cover reading Hardy. Keep running, this new thing that exhausts you but makes you happy and fitter and thinner and puts you to blissful sleep at night with huge gusts of endorphins. Take off to Oxford for the day, wander on Port Meadow and along to Binsey. Have happy, silly dinners with I., pick him up after work and walk through Soho for felafel and film, have fights in salvage warehouses about the wisdom of buying Victorian doors for our outsize doorways.
But there is also the work. The work, the work. The book I cannot feel enthusiastic about, the conferences.
But here is a new start. A good thing. I stretch out my limbs and wave blithely at myself. I go to make blissful coffee with hot milk.