Tag Archives: hipster

Home Office

Working from home is one of those millennial goals that constantly appear on Facebook. It’s always a photo of some twat in a hammock with a Mac Book, pretending to focus on their screen while holding a beer. We get it. Your partner took the picture with their iPhone while you updated your Facebook status. #unemployed #imsomiserable #foolingmyself

Mac Books are not designed for work. They are built specifically for sitting at coffee shops, scrolling through Facebook and watching videos of your favourite ideologue destroying college students in debates. Put on your best checkered shirt, polish those thick-framed glasses, comb your non-binary facial hair and ride your electric skateboard straight to Star Bucks, like the anti-capitalist you were born to be!

Their Instagram profile reads something like “travel blogger, entrepreneur, explorer.” Entrepreneur because they’re desperately scrounging the web for easy cash. Their favourite YouTuber guaranteed that once the first step of a spiritual path had been taken then the rest would fall into place. A falling bank balance wasn’t part of the vision which came to them during their meditation retreat in Bali. Explorer makes them sound edgy and unique like everyone else born after 1984 with an internet connection. Employers love that mysterious shit!

Three years ago they bought a physical newspaper at Heathrow airport and added “journalist” to their resumé. If you can read an article then you can write one.

Meanwhile, back in Corona-land, people with PCs carry on with real work and keep the global economy ticking. But now they do it from home. The question we’re asking ourselves is why didn’t we do this sooner? Working from home in our underwear affords us more sleep and saves us from drinking the sewerage which the office calls coffee. No more tea breaks with Sandra from HR telling everyone about Mr Fluffle’s appointment with the vet and how it rained during her Saturday brunch with the Crazy Cat Lady Committee.

Studies show that the average office employee is only productive for three out of eight hours. Why do nothing at work when you can do it from home? Give your bluetooth mouse a shake every ten minutes to keep your profile icon green and do something you actually give a damn about. You’re not really passionate about environmental urban development. You pulled that out of your arse to ace the job interview and snatch a stable income in return for your soul.

Use this time to clean out your wardrobe, bake bread, continue to ignore your in-laws, get to know that oddball you married and write down life plans together. Cancel Netfilx, it’s garbage, you know it. The guitar on your wall is not only for decoration, your mountain bike is collecting dust and your dog wants more cuddles. Or go back to the office and pretend.


I am hopelessly dependent on coffee. Not in the way that I consume seven cups a day, but I need my shot of murky delightfulness in the morning. I can’t consume my drug on an empty stomach, and sometimes I think the only reason I eat breakfast is to get my dose of caffeine.

Coffee is enjoyable, especially when sharing it at a trendy, over-priced café with friends. The kind of place that serves drinks in jam jars, as though every other café isn’t already doing that. Their cups and plates are unique in that they were made in a preschool pottery class and painted by blind chimps. Minimalism is hip right now and the chairs look like they came from an Auschwitz canteen. Tables that don’t wobble are immediately thrown out.

It’s Saturday morning, your schedule is empty, the weather is warm and the waiter with a BA degree just served you a steaming Americano with oat milk on the side. That cheap little biscuit they put on the saucer is so small that you burn your fingers while trying to dip it.

You could order one of their “home-made” cookies they keep in a glass jar at the counter, but one of them costs more than your shoes. Everyone knows the biscuits come from the supermarket across the street and were baked on a giant conveyor belt nowhere near anyone’s home. Apparently, they become worth their weight in gold once placed in a transparent container with a hand-written note stating that they’re home-baked.

The waiter puts his university education to good use by skilfully removing the smallest one with a pair of metal tongs and places it on a side plate. You think he’s flirting and giving you his phone number. But no, that’s just the price of the goddamn biscuit.

Returning to your table, the figures run through your mind. One Americano and a factory biscuit has cost the same as two packets of ground coffee beans. That’s about eighty cups of coffee at home, where you make it the way you like it, the tables are level,  your arse doesn’t sweat against cheap plastic chairs and the music doesn’t make your ears bleed.

Your hard earned cash could have gone towards supporting coffee farmers in Uganda. Instead you’ve helped Eduardo on his path from BA graduate to aspiring actor. At least the coffee was good.