Colonel Mustard's Place

(aka the conservatory)

When I was sitting in that snowy-roofed conservatory yesterday morning, there was a little battle going on in my mind...a tug of war between hope and resignation.

I like my own space in the morning. Space to relax, and prepare myself for the day. (This was particularly apparent to me on this week's course, but I realise that it holds true generally, too -- that's why I like getting in to work early...to 'set myself'.)

So...the hotel conservatory was a good place to do that: I could stare intently off into the distance, a cup of coffee resting on my knee, and nobody would disturb me. (Even if they did disturb me, I'd soon see them off with a tight smile and my cutting disdain.)

I like what a glass conservatory roof does: creates a bright, light space, with some nice slopes, and a space where the light cuts across the room in ways that windows-in-the-wall can never do. That light opens everything up, seems to bathe you in an unusual brightness. I confess that these simple tricks of light lift my mood, make me feel like I could be different, and do different things. Breath fills my lungs.

On the other hand, conservatory architecture reminds me of one of the most miserable periods of my life: the time when I edited two new book series into existence, with tight deadlines and inadequate supporting resources. I sat at a makeshift desk in the conservatory of a rented house, editing text and testing code that I barely understood.

The upshot of which was...I spent a lot of time in the winter/spring of 1999/2000 working at home; during the day, during the evening, at weekends -- driven by some weird perfectionist sense of wanting to make these books as great as they could be. (I remember working on an ActionScript chapter 2nd edit until 02:30 one Sunday morning. I'd never heard Bob Harris all the way through...)

The broader idea here is how a particular image -- the conservatory -- can embody an internal struggle: between light and dark; between hope and regret; between optimism and pessimism.

The thing I like to remember is that one of those books was great. and the other one was not bad. (The 'great' book is still being technically -- but not structurally -- revised every time the base software changes. That makes me proud of the job I did.

All that stuff goes through my head whenever I sit in a conservatory.