The spare room has other plans

You offer the spare room over the phone, with the easy confidence of someone who is currently downstairs. Saturday sounds lovely. Of course there's room. Then you go up to have a look and remember that the bed is occupied by the clean washing. You have been meaning to fold it since Tuesday.

At the window, your laptop sits beside a half-finished sewing project. The printer is under the table, because it has to be somewhere, and an empty suitcase occupies the chair. It was put there after the last holiday so it could go back in the cupboard. The next holiday is now closer. There is a bed in this room, certainly, but calling it a bedroom does rather overlook everybody else's contribution.

On Friday afternoon, you begin the conversion. The suitcase goes away, which takes considerably less time than you have spent stepping round it. Laundry returns to its drawers. Your work papers are gathered into a folder, while the sewing needs more care: these pieces have been cut to a pattern, and losing one would turn making a cushion into quite a long evening. You carry them out together, on the board they're lying on.

The cleared table looks enormous. Briefly, you imagine keeping it this way forever, perhaps with a single tasteful branch in a vase. By Monday you would be balancing your laptop on your knees to preserve the effect. You like this room because the light is good in the afternoon and you can close the door for a call. Giving that up for the occasional visitor would be a peculiar act of hospitality, especially when the visitor hasn't asked you to.

Once the bed is made, the room begins to look rather inviting. The quilt has colour you barely noticed beneath the washing. Curtains frame the window; a shaded lamp catches the edge of a picture. The little bookshelves can stay exactly as they are. There is something pleasing about sleeping among someone else's books, including the ambitious hardbacks neither of you is likely to finish this weekend.

You sit on the bed to see what a guest would find. The lamp switch requires a reach behind the mattress. The nearest socket already powers the printer. These seem more urgent than the vase, so the lamp moves closer and the printer has the weekend off. A clear chair takes an overnight bag; a few empty hangers wait on the rail. You put out a towel and find yourself wondering whether it looks better rolled. You have known these people for years. They have seen you eat over the sink.

When the doorbell goes, you are ready. The room smells of clean sheets, and there is space beside the bed for unfamiliar feet in the dark. Behind the cupboard door are your files. Under the desk is a box of fabric. Your friend puts a bag on the chair, has a look at the books and asks what time you’re eating. Downstairs, the kettle is boiling.

After they've gone, there's a drinking glass to collect and a book left open on the bedside table. You strip the bed and bring the sewing back upstairs. By Monday morning the laptop is at the window again, where you can see the garden between emails. The lamp stays in its new position. It turns out you like being able to reach it too.

The chair is still clear when you finish work. You sit down for a minute, pleased with the room and its brief career in hospitality. Then the washing machine finishes.