No more will I shuffle around the house this winter in a sleeping bag unzipped at the bottom. No more will I field random calls during the day from people asking me to ‘just pop the washing on the line’. No more will I sigh gustily at people telling me how lucky I am to work from home because I can ‘watch telly all day, sleep and eat whenever’. No more darling puss sitting on the only bit of paper I want to read.
Because I have a new office!
Brunswick, of course – 5 mins’ walk from my house. A converted school turned into a business centre, decked out splendidly in turquoise and navy. It’s all warm and dry, and there are lads wandering briskly about in business attire. I have a view of the carpark, where I can rubberneck to my heart’s desire. Two receptionists (tough, with a heart of gold, naturally) field my calls, accept packages, deliver faxes and generally organise my shit. The dulcet tones of Anthony Kiedis waft out of speakers in the kitchen, and there is a biscuit barrel full of Arnott’s Assorted Creams.
I am brainstorming ideas to redesign my office, as I can do whatever I like to it. Thus far I have come up with: ‘by the pool at a cheap Mexican hotel’ (sun lounge, fake palm tree, one of those bamboo bars like the prow of a ship, party lights and a big mural of sun-kissed beaches) or ‘girl reporter’s office in the last days of British rule in Cairo’ (typewriter, Bakelite phone, rattan furniture, faded rugs, wafty white fabric and a monkey wearing a fez, trained to do my bidding). I am of course open to suggestions.
I get business magazines delivered to my pigeon hole (I have a pigeon hole) that I adore getting but do not read. This sign gives me gratuitous pleasure:
There is a ludicrously large storage area that I do not use:
This is a view of the carpark, and the second building. All the fashion design business are housed in here, as they are (and I quote), “too bitchy”.
The area is dandy as well. Negrita coffee wafts delicious aromas down the road, and Ray (too trendy for words but with beaut cofee and cupcakes) is a short walk away. At the taxi place next door, a synthetic suit chappie twirls his moustaches at me every morning. Nearby is this minaret thingo (I know it’s something to do with an old brickworks, but humour me):
And what is this on Brunswick Estacion? Did someone have a nasty cycling accident on the Upfield bike track?
Oh, I see. Moving right along.