Mustard-yellow, smoky orange.

I recently visited a brunch place that's incredibly well-known just for being a brunch place. I remember it had queues out the door a decade ago, when my then-boyfriend and I would order waffles and pancakes and take photos of each other in the chic and so alternative mustard-yellow booths. This time I went alone, at 8am, before setting up in the office and while I didn't have the best experience (pro tip: don't write a mean Google review, instead ask for an email address, to give thoughtful feedback) it was a nice stop-gap between the hotel and my desk. 

This isn't my office. Photo by Huy Phan.

I found myself saying to the kind young server who asked if I had any fun plans for the day 'oh, just going to the office' - then felt the need to add, 'which isn't actually that bad, I like my job'. I then cut through the big ugly vans, skeleton stalls and half-mast marquees on Berwick Street and past Soho Radio, where I once saw John Bishop standing around looking like pure sunshine with his enormous grin and glorious tan, and beeped my fob on the door of the smoky orange shop front. I do like my job. It's not changing the world, but it's bringing wholesome energy, a healthy dollop of cultural representation and some nice-smelling treats into existence. Why are we so conditioned to say 'just going to work' with such dread, embarrassment, a weird apologetic energy, even? The guy I ordered coffee from later that day, in the cool punk cafe that's named after a specific hot drink that I only order when I need an afternoon jolt, round the same corner as my disappointing breakfast, said 'we're conditioned to say things like that, to reject the corporate life and be like martyrs.' I think he's right. This got deep. 

Chat soon,

G. x