My wife is considering taking me into the office for show & tell. "Behold the home alone freelancer," she will say. "Observe how he roams undisciplined from room to room in search of inspiration beyond the orbit of his swivel chair. Note the refrigerator door time-motion studies in Appendix B. Marvel at his unproductive attention deficit disorder and silently cheer when he overcomes it for more than five minutes running. Thank you very much. Next week I will be bringing in my lavender bath towel as an example of perfect function and form."
She works in an IT department wrapped in a large banking concern inside a cool marble hell. As she puts it, "I sold my soul." Given that God must have a support staff to track our wayward impulses, I think he will show mercy.
Her above ground crypt is deeply air-conditioned and pleasantly casual, though she does tend to wear scratchy things to compensate for this.
Occasionally she is able to sweet talk the Swiss guards at the stationery cupboard, who are not at all neutral about post-its. Thus this morning I am breaking in a mousepad, surprisingly logoless. I prefer to let the rodent roam free range on the desk, but its movement on the cheap pine is not without its own scratchy element, which somehow burrows its way through the walls and into her ears when she's home 5 to 9 (I wish). Thus my dedicated training in the art of confining the arc of my arrowflights to this spongy blue pasture, whose rounded corners curl up annoyingly.
Having recently purchased a machine without a trackpad, I surprisingly find myself not missing that heat (touch?) sensitive plastic square; and my index finger thanks me for the new digs.
Soon it will be time for my morning mango. This is not a tradition yet. First I must google Burkina Faso for background.
