There's a room above mine, which has variously been known by a number of names. None of them are as frustratingly middle-class as things like "the garden room" or "the library", both of which have been applied to a back room on the ground floor by my parents, or even "the study" (which is now a spare lounge for me to crash out in). Not being a cast member on Keeping Up Appearances myself, I don't go into that kind of bourgeois language. I call the room on the top floor "the studio" because it actually is a studio. My dad has set up a recording desk there and uses it as an audio studio. So do I.
It's been called other things, though. It was "my sister's bedroom" for a long enough time to justify the Jigglypuff painted on the wall. It's been "the guest room" a few times when my dad's tidied it up under direction from my mother. It was "my cousin's room" for the year or so that my cousin lived in this house. It's even been "the cat's room" at times when Willow runs up the stairs and REFUSES TO COME BACK DOWN AGAIN. It's also been "the loft", on account of the fact that it's the loft.
However, I prefer to think of it as "The ILB Hostel".
I shall explain. This room has a large bed in it, which has housed a fair number of sex bloggers. Rose slept there for a night last February. Blacksilk and Crush were there earlier in the year and even Jilly spent a night there before we were Being A Couple. There's a sink and a towel rack and and heater, and even a TV. It's quite a nice room, when you come to think about it. Pretty self-contained and far away enough from my mother, which is a plus...
...except at the moment it looks like a bomb's hit it.
Seriously, I have no idea what happened to it. My dad spent about three weeks tidying it up, which involved creating ordered piles of random stuff in the storage space cunningly concealed behind the walls, and yet when I went up there yesterday morning to clear some of the aforementioned storage space to put some stuff in... well... storage, I found that to be an incredibly easy task, on account of the fact that someone had taken it all out and dumped it on the floor. I'm willing to bet that someone wasn't the cat.
47 turned up yesterday with about half an hour's notice and I was suddenly struck with three feelings - one: slight annoyance, as I was planning to seduce and make love to my girlfriend that afternoon; two: delight, as I've missed him a lot and didn't see an awful lot of him despite staying at his house last week; three: "oh fuck, where am I going to have him sleep?". Visions of pulling out spare sleeping bags or unfolding the chair-bed combo that Willow likes to sit on being a cat flitted through my head, but I eventually settled upon, "if it's okay that it's a bit messy, you can sleep in the studio".
47 pointed out the fact that he spent the previous night sleeping with a friend in a makeshift bed that was still on the floor from the last time he stayed over with this friend, and that was over a year ago. This put things into perspective somewhat, and therefore I let him toddle off to the loft to watch cartoons, or whatever it is that he does to help him sleep. (I settled for having sex directly below him. Don't say a word.)
I was going to mention the fact that I've never fantasised about having sex in that bed. Which is weird, because I have thought long and hard about having sex in my own bed (in fact, it's one of the very few places I can envision it, but I suppose that's easy enough to do, since it's actually happened), but as I've said, it's a self-contained room almost entirely cut off from the rest of the house (there's a door before the stairs and all), almost creating a "sanctuary" feeling. I've even had sex on the floor of that room and didn't even think to head about a metre to the left for a softer surface. It would, now I think about it, be the ideal place to have sex, and yet I've never even considered it.
But if I ever do, before any of you come to stay, I make this solemn vow to you. Scout's honour.
I'll change the sheets.