Clearing out my study table drawer the other day, I suddenly realise what I miss. I miss having my own room. A lot.
I know, I know, I'm married and I live and share a bed and bathroom with an over-grown boy. I have too. It's one of those unstated, unwritten laws of marriage. But still, I miss having my own room.
And I'm not talking huge, big, gigantic room with a walk-in closet that resembles the floor area of a Ritu's boutique. Just a little haven of space that is mine alone.
Where I don't need to accommodate another person's stuff. Which reflects my personality, my quirks, my obsessions and delights. Which smells of sandalwood on some days, roses on others and green apples every now and then. Which would have a secret stash of Classic Ultra Milds, Juicy Fruit Bubblegum, Twix bars, nimki and Cavendish & Harvey sour cherry drops. Where I would hang snaps of me and my boys that reek of mamta, maternity and motherhood; make a collage out of post-cards and pictures of famous Impressionist paintings; and have a huge photograph of New York's Central Part displaying the gorgeous, golden-flame colours of fall in a full blaze of glory.
A small space to call my own and make my own. To mould and shape to reflect the inner passions and whimsies of my soul.