Wooden slats, a hard chair, scraps of paper, thin cushions, a small desk, cold coffee cups, morning light and the sound of birds; after more than 15 years of what I believe we call economic activity, I am finally getting a room of my own. Yes, I am building a shed. Like Dylan Thomas, Roald Dahl and probably that guy with glasses off The Repair Shop, I shall henceforth be working out of the house, looking at a rosemary bush.
As a woman, I now believe that this is the only way to work from home without sinking constantly into the mire of housework. I say women, because, as pretty much every sociological report on the subject has proved, within cis-gendered, heterosexual relationships, women still do the majority of domestic labour. A foul concoction of social conditioning, an unfair labour market, pay inequality and unaffordable childcare means that it is primarily women who hang out the laundry, wipe the counter tops, clean the bath and not only notice that the floor is covered in grated cheese but then take the radical step of sweeping up the grated cheese.
