Working from home is such a dirty little pleasure.
Despite working for myself and having no office to base myself in, I rarely spend a day working at home. There are clients to visit, prospects to court, and fun to be had during the dead time in between the day’s tasks; I probably spend more time in town than most ‘real’ white collar workers.
So actually taking a day out – letting the alarm clock snooze a few minutes past 7, enjoying a leisurely bagel, and donning old jeans and crumpled shirt instead of suit or street – feels deliciously naughty, like taking the last chocolate or accidentally dodging a DLR fare (no turnstiles) and realising you’ve got away with it. Also, I get to sit at the Redmachine, a honking multi-Pentiumed aluminium-boxed PC that doesn’t get used much these days: Worth at the Mighty Wurlitzer. Working this way, as long as it’s an interesting assignment, doesn’t feel like work.
On top of that, seeing your own neighbourhood at times you’re not normally there is an experience. Living 10mins’ ride from the Square Mile isn’t exactly the suburbs, but it feels like them, with the mass unemployed walking their shabby dogs and bored teenagers staking out the park. It’s a different atmosphere in daylight.