When we moved into this house we stashed homeless items in the office. It's a little room at the back of our house with an ugly ceiling (badly repaired after an upstairs plumbing leak) and an ugly floor (water damage + old hardwood) as well as ugly woodwork (the former owners' dog did a number on the door and its frame). Also: ugly paneling on the walls, ugly wallpaper in the closet, ugly peeling paint on the windowsills.
This is the northeast corner. The file cabinet is broken, but it is holding up a stack of homeless framed pictures. Also note the cardboard box of scarves and mittens in the middle of the floor. UGH. And the books! Aaagh, the books. (My husband will never stop buying books. I wouldn't really want him to stop altogether, of course, but I do pitch the notices about the library book sales because he is a wild man at a library book sale. He comes home with bags and bags of rare and precious finds, and I smile and say wearily, "Oh! More books. Wonder where they are going to go." It doesn't really work, though, when I intercept the notices in the mail. He has some crazy kind of homing thing in his brain that draws him inexorably to library book sales. Or it could just be that he reads the notices in the paper.)
There was a paper shredder in the middle of the floor. There was stuff, piles of homeless stuff, on the other file cabinet and the desk and the ugly wheeled thing that used to be a microwave cart. The closet was reminiscent of Fibber McGee.
I hated that room and yet I couldn't really imagine getting it into shape.
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