There’s something oddly delightful about having the whole office to yourself first thing on a Friday morning before everything kicks off and we all crash into a wall at 5. There’s something less oddly delightful about the courier who busted in, breaking up the silence, and scared the poop out of me.

I’m slowly coming to the realisation that if I ever hope to have a social life again (at least, over the next 6-12 months), I’ll need to move closer to work. They’ve been great in letting me work from home two days this week, but there are certainly no promises I can keep doing that. It would be nice to be 20-30 minutes away from work, rather than 2 hours.

And so the hunt begins. In my non-existent downtime, I need to find an appropriate room mate and find somewhere to live. I hope I have the former tentatively penciled in very lightly with a 4H pencil: darling Izzy. The latter will be difficult, but at least there is no urgent rush.

It’s all qualified in my head; renting in Sydney could be a nice stepping stone, and certainly a change of scenery that I’m looking for.

I wonder if my Mum will travel to Sydney to pick up my washing?