Cubicle Woman


This morning, after I’d carried home two monster bunches of sunflowers, a kilo of peaches, a bag full of mussels and enough toilet paper to get us through the next six months I realised how idiotically happy it made me to close the front door and know I need not leave the building again for 24 hours.

‘But wait’, I hear you say, doesn’t this ungrateful bitch live in the most beautiful city in the world? Shouldn’t she be out there every minute God sends her, sunning herself at canal-side cafés and giving thanks for the blueness of the sky?’

The thing is though, I am essentially Cubicle Woman, at my happiest inside my own four walls. I dread parties, resent the telephone and absolutely cannot sit on committees. Emails are fine. They arrive silently and I can choose when to read them. And I love it when Mr F pushes a note under my door that says LUNCH?or CUP OF TEA? Also, as required, I push gobbets of finished work out under the door and sometimes I get paid for them. Basically I vant to be alone.

I suppose that means I should be just as happy in a cubicle in Barrow-in-Furness or in Hoboken NJ, especially if its walls were papered with views of terracotta roofs and I had a recording of the 6pm angelus piped in. But I fear I would not. And while my luck lasts, I’m not going to put it to the test.




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