A few weeks ago, on one of those dark winter days when I was longing for spring to finally arrive, a most beautiful book arrived on my desk: "Bird Watching," by Paula McCartney, published by Princeton Architectural Press.
All three men would serve time for Watergate-related offences, but these aren't the film journals of moustache-twirling conspirators: they show men messing around at their desks, birds hopping on the White House lawn, Henry Kissinger eating cake.
One of the pleasures of working from home is the ability to observe the bird life in our garden from the comfort of my desk (fortunately, birds ignore our inaptly named cat, Rocky – pugilistic as a kitten, he is now mostly inert).
Writer took a clump of streamers and mashed computer cards home, where they sit on his desk like a bird's nest.
It wasn't until six months later that she discovered he had built an entire theory of her personality around the assumption that her dream desk included accommodations for birds.
As the view shifts to the side, she passes through a glass window into the real space of the actors, who are sitting at desks perusing books about birds.
His hands dropped like dead birds onto his desk, finishing the thought.
Fortunately for Toole, the caged bird beside my desk lets out a raucous shriek.
His desk is surrounded by weird curios: taxidermied birds, a fetal alligator in a jar, bones of things contorted into sculptural arrangements.
This will allow you to check on the birds' activity from the comfort of your desk without having to disturb them unless truly necessary.
