Combining work and pleasure is a perilous thought for some. The concept often alludes to sordid, debaucherous situations which result in awkward, meaningful looks being snuck at co-workers as hangovers and embarrassment jostle for priority.
I’ve found a more innocent way to bring hard yakka and hedonism together, as is true to my nature.
It’s my Sunday office. I can feel the sun seeping into my back while I write about yesterday’s footy game with the same enthusiasm I’d muster for rehashing a date with a mate. A cold Peroni is the icing on the Sunday-afternoon-work cake. It’s even low-alcohol, although that was definitely a dim-lighting-in-the-liquor-store error.
For the record, I completely endorse combining work and pleasure in other, much guiltier ways.