I love my office.
Not the one at work, that one smells of dead crickets and old farts, and is modern and functional. I'm referring instead to my office here at home. The place where I sit and blog or email, or surf for vital factoids on the Information Superhighway. I sit in my leather chair, my back to the dark cherry desk, facing my matching credenza and hutch, and stare longingly into all 19" of my monitor through which the world comes to me, all while I am wrapped in my small, cluttered slice of world.
My office, you see, looks just like I always wanted an office of my own to look, and it smells just the way I have always dreamed my office should smell. The walls are dark green; there is a large double set of windows, a generous carpet, and all my dark cherry furniture. I have my oversized brown leather chair with it's wooden arms and it's soft, somewhat ragged leather. I have my big cherry desk, and I have all my desk tools and things laid out upon it. Two oxblood red leather chairs face in front, and my fountain pen lies on the desktop, waiting for inspiration to strike.
And of course I have many bookcases. The corner bookcase houses my oddities--a pair of coconut halves for making horse hooves sounds, a black bowler hat, and a soft foam giraffe mask. It holds my nautilus shell under it's glass dome, and my clipping of Sir Thomas Sopwith's death notice. My antique binoculars are there, as is my father's old German manual 35mm camera. My barrister's bookcase is full of knick-knacks; my collection of Preben Holm pipes that I rarely smoke, old lighters, an old meerschaum pipe of a beautifully nude mermaid that my father brought back from Turkey, and even an old pack of his Raleigh cigarettes, still in it's cellophane. The opposite bookcase holds my ranks and ranks of tinned tobacco, soldiers waiting for the call to fire, and a black and white photo of the original Strawberry Bitch and her crewmen.
My cherry and glass cigar humdior stands guard on top of a squat cherry filing cabinet, keeping my precious puros fresh and ready while the antique brass fire extinguisher rests proudly on a side table beside the aquarium, which fills the room with a soft green glow. Above the aquarium hangs a framed repro of the London Times front page showing the Wright Brother's first flight and an old Tinder Box lithograph. A muzzle-loader and a hunting horn hang over the far wall, above heavy, dark green curtains which separate my office from the game room. A demilune bookcase by the door holds my faux antique radio purchased for me by my syster and her mom, as thanks for past favors, and some of my favourite authors are filed in that small case--Kafka, Doyle, Stout and Tolkien. My ceramic phrenology head and an antique book on phrenology watch from the hutch, flanked by an antiqued globe and my grey Mad Hatter top hat.
And of course I have my pipes. Two shadow-boxes filled with bits and pieces of 17th and 18th century English and Dutch clay pipes, and my hand built rack on the wall closest to my desk; my regular circulation pipes are therein, my friends of good weather and bad, my companions through thick and thin, through English blends and Aromatics. Through them I meet my mistress, Lady Nicotina. And hence the smell of my office--rich old leather, dark tobaccos, and the sensuous musk of books. I love those smells--when I first pull the door open it wafts gently out, invites me to sit and relax, reach for a pipe and fire, open to a favourite Holmes adventure and watch the world go by outside while I reside quietly, restfully, in my fragrant abode.