There is nothing in my Birmingham apartment that reminds me about Moscow, my birthplace\u2014I have no photos of Moscow hanging on the walls; other than a few gifts from old friends, I have no personal possessions I brought with me from Russia to the UK. The years of moving from one country to another, and the aftermath of Christchurch\u2019s earthquake (when most of our belongings remained stored in the warehouse for several years before we settled in the UK), had taught me that one doesn\u2019t need to have much to live, to enjoy life. And certainly, I don\u2019t need much to write. A pencil and a piece of paper\u2014that was it. I can write on a train, on a bus, on a plane, I can write walking down the street, sitting in a coffee shop, in the library, on my laptop at home: they\u2019re my \u201cwriting rooms\u201d, where the journey always begins, pauses or ends.<\/p>\n
For a long time, I didn\u2019t have a desk … So, I would often browse online shops in search of one, but nothing ever caught my eye. That was until one of my relatives sent me a snap of a desk she wanted to get rid of. I knew that would be the one. She said, \u2018You can do whatever you want with it … maybe you should paint it …\u2019. I did nothing. I liked its shabbiness and the roughness of its old unpolished dark wood, worn-out handles and broken locks, its musty smell and all the little hidden drawers where I keep lots of \u201cimportant and unimportant junk\u201d. That writing desk had taken a long journey to appear here, from some unknown home in the South, then to Bristol and then to Birmingham. The only question is, is it the beginning or is it the end of its journey?<\/p>\n
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