Since I started revising ‘1919 (outside)’, I’ve been perching on cushions, typing on my ancient netbook balanced on a tv stand.
It’s not ideal. In fact, it wrecks my back and I can’t work for any length of time before the pain of being in such an absurd position rises up and forces me to walk around, lie down or something else.
This morning, I finally tracked down that furniture place and bought a desk, a chair and a filing cabinet. £95 the lot – including the delivery charge.
It’s arriving tomorrow so tomorrow night, when I get in from work, I gots to reboot my bedroom, make it more like an office.
Which is what people have been telling me since lochend 1994 – “this flat looks like an idiot’s fuckin’ office!”
Desk strewn with papers, me leaning back in high-backed chair, filing cabinet hanging open with papers sticking up and out…
It does increase productivity, though. I seem to function better in a home-office environment. Which is ironic, since I’m someone who despises office work.
The worst jobs I have EVER had (council; housing dept and inland revenue) were both in offices.
Why not use your face to read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)
If Scottish literature can be thought of as an elderly, overweight gentleman with savage diarrhea, 1919 (inside) is the land-mine he just stepped on.
Do it – do it NOW – for the children, eh? think of the children.