desk out of service

I dream of having a desk.

My  very own desk,  in an office. With a fancy computer and a large mug of coffee on it, and drawers where I keep my personal stuff like a bar of chocolate, a little notebook for jotting down creative ideas that don't necessarily have anything to do with work, and a novel that I sometimes read on my lunch break.

Around me are fun colleagues whom I sometimes share a joke with, or go for lunch with, but who don't interfere with my work or criticize me if I check Facebook on my break or maybe leave a little early.

A desk that I can leave occasionally to pop out for an errand and a latte or to have delicious sushi at the cute restaurant at the corner.

I see myself sitting there at that desk, wearing high heels because I don't have to run around much and cool, ripped jeans because I don't have to dress up for customers. I'm wearing nail polish in an outrageous colour. No-one can complain if my desk is messy but no-one has the right to mess it up either.

Above all, I can bury myself in my work because no-one can demand that I get up and perform customer service.