Slatterny, or why I'm not allowed nice things

I was tagged by the lovely Wendy at Inside The Wendy House to answer the immortal question, "Where do I blog?"  And then I kept her waiting all weekend while I drank cider, watched The Wurzels and played on the beach, before coming home to answer the question.

We all wonder, I know, what the people behind the blogs we read REALLY get up to.  Are they the saintly neat & tidy people with everything in its place that my husband assumes is how the rest of the world lives, or are they the slatternly folk for whom everything has a place, and that place is wherever it lands?

From that picture, you might be able to guess which side of the line my blogplatz falls on. Highlights of this picture include: a can of Coke Zero, some hair wax, Squeaky's change bag (the black messenger bag on top of the drawers), and almost out of shot, the baby monitor.  You can tell it's real, the screen is showing my last post, mid-way through the creative process.  It's actually not as bad as it could be, there's often a discarded coffee cup or two, and maybe a plate of toast hanging around there somewhere, but as we've been away, I haven't had chance to make too much mess, there's only the static junk there today.

Honestly, though, I can see the tv, Squeaky's usually around my feet (the uncomfortable old wooden chair is because she worked out how to climb onto the computer chair, so I took it away. She can climb on this one now too, though.), or if she's not, she's watching CBeebies just a few feet away.  The desk is getting pretty rickety now, I had it when I went to university, and it kind of leans to the left in a slightly worrisome manner.  I keep thinking about replacing it, but while it's still standing, what's the point?  I'm the last of the Old Skool, in that I'm using a desktop pc (a very new one at that, I only bought it last month when the old one died a death), mostly because my lappy is a temperamental beast, and if I'm writing, I want to know it'll get to where I wanted to post it. Otherwise I'd blog in bed, it's warmer there.

I'm going to tag the following lovelies.  Are you saints, or slatterns like me?
Abigail of Abigail and the Future
Gingembre of Momma Wears Combat Boots

See Bibsey's original post, where it all began.