A wine blogger and his desk

Three metres by one, with a dividing wall of books, partially electrified by various cables, which in turn are covered in papers. A source periodic territorial dispute. The wine blogger's half is populated with spent bottles, corks and pieces of foil. I dare not sniff, my nose would fill with dust. . . It reminds me a crime scene, almost all the evidence is there, though the wine, the protagonist, the one with the most information has long left the scene. Notebooks and scraps of paper, meaningless scribble. . . a cloudy green stone, a lush bursting mushroom, tea leaves chocolate and honey. . . what nonsense, what a mess. . . Three cameras, a printer and laptop, a pile of bills and receipts, keys and a calico bag containing my remaining pair of egg pants. Pens and ink, elastic bands, dictionaries, cook books and novels; everywhere paper. Stones and and feathers, a bag of salt, steroid cream for my eczema, an unused prayer mat; ideas and thoughts floating on teak and all covered by a fine sprinkling of dust.