Give a shit

Some sketches I uploaded whilst I was at work last week. Temping in a really lax office killed my bloggery because when you can theoretically get paid for doing something, you never want to do it for free. As I was essentially free to piss around on the internet all day at work I didn't want to come back to piss around on the internet at home. But then when I was at work I was eternally scared of getting fired for constantly revising BBC news stories, and the comments, in case they came up in some wacky bonus round in the Tuesday pub quiz and not sending the important letters I was asked to send. A fear of confounding my case by appearing to be in the midst of some elaborate other internet-based project and being sent to sort out the stationery cupboard for the next two weeks meant I never really did any blogging. It's a similar logic that led me to saving any toilet action for when I was getting paid to sit still, and going to bed farting and uncomfortable. I guess that's the price of getting paid for doing something you love.

I'm ready for my Spanish holiday this Summer.


This is the reception where I was working. Sometimes I hung out here because the receptionist was nice and sometimes brought in treats like snowballs (those old-fashioned chocolate and marshmallow things, not rounded lumps of crystalline water ice) or lemon drizzle cake (which seems to be rather fashionable recently. Or at least, Charlotte and I made one last week, and then there was a feature on Woman's Hour about them. Does that count as fashionable? I haven't read Vogue or The Face recently, but LDC is probably on both covers).


We got Glastonbury tickets in the end. Sophie here is probably reading about LDC.


The office.


Camberwell Church Gardens, where I ate my LDC and packed lunch.