Desk: work in progress

I'm utterly fascinated at the moment by the photos in the Guardian Review section each Saturday, that show writers' rooms. Aside from the fact that I bet they've all been tidied up before the Guardian photographer got his foot inside the door (although Claire Tomalin's desk this week was suitably messy) it's interesting to see what sort of equipment they use (a surprising number of old-fashioned typewriters), and what they cover the walls with (I can't remember who it was last week, but their walls were almost entirely covered by a regiment of Post-it notes).

So, in comparison, here's mine, squashed in next to the filing cabinet:

The pictures on the walls are all ones I've taken in Paris. There's one of the giant geodesic dome at Parc de la Villette, two of La Defense's skyscrapers and wacky modern sculptures at night, a couple of the Louvre, and a close up of the Institute du Monde Arabe's fantastic panelling. Oh, and the Eiffel Tower, natch.

As for the desk (suitably tidied):

• my laptop
• a mouse
• a replica bullet train, sent from Japan in the 1970s by my auntie, containing a stapler, a hole punch and a stack of business cards
• a picture I did, shortly before M arrived (there's the delights of maternity leave for you...)
• a money box in the shape of a cat, bearing the legend "rainy day fund". Needless to say, it's empty...
• a (stilton) pot of assorted pens, mainly those ones you get sent free in the post by charities
• a coaster
• small pile of notebooks and diary. If I lose those, I'm dead.

Not sure what all this says about me. No life? No taste? Answers on a (tidied) postcard.