... Ate a Frenchman's Sorbet on Company Time

Today, I went back to work. For a person who's main priorities for each day had only just recently entailed watching back to back episodes of Scrubs, attempting allergy-friendly baking and taking a low-rider on excursions to the IGA five blocks away - that pretty much sucked.

For starters, I had to be out of bed before 11am. Also, it involved putting on "big grown-up girl clothes" (as opposed to the Bonds underpants and Hello Kitty singlet I've been sporting around the house of late). Everyone knows that accessorizing in anticipation of entering the workplace can be exhausting. Particularly when underwear has been your couture de jour for the good part of a week.

So anyway. My morning.

Alarm goes off. Get out of bed. Decide too grumpy to even shower. In place of: wash face, bobby-pin hair, spray on equal parts deodorant and Comme des Garcons 888. Put on "big grown-up girl clothes" (Zimmerman dress, Mimco necklace, vintage zebra bangle blah blah blah). Kiss boyfriend goodbye in manner of worker drone about to go collect pollen for the queen. Walk through East Melbourne to Face Cream Cult Central, sit down at computer and open Outlook. Click through unopened emails. Delete some emails. Write some emails. Contemplate writing unhinged Haikus and sending them to colleagues in manner of Jack in Fight Club. Go down to the kitchen for lunch. Go back to desk. Proved right in prediction that air-conditioner would cease correct function around 2pm. Feel smug in accuracy of prediction. Read more emails. Delete more emails. Suddenly lose smug feeling re: air-conditioning malfunction on account of becoming increasingly hot and dizzy. Contemplate best place in office to slash-up. Interrupted mid-suicide fantasy with offer of trip to Monsieur Truffe for homemade sorbet. Day becomes amazing.

And just like that, six of us walked out of the office in a pack on the promise of an icy sweet treat. We didn't ask permission and we didn't care. It was over 4o degrees and that meant blazers off and running through the sprinklers at the bus stop. We were bad ass. These bees wanted cassis sorbet (perhaps also with a scoop of sour cherry). We sat on the couch in the coolness of that jaunty Smith Street chocolate cave, while the kindly Frenchman (with a sanguine smile and exceeding goodwill for someone also experiencing a 44 degree day) served our $2.50 scoops of icy goodness in little china bowls with handmade wooden spoons.

Raspberry. Apricot. Sour Cherry. Cassis. Dark Chocolate. All. So. Good.

So my advice, for what it's worth, is this... if you work within walking distance to Monsieur Truffe and are recently back from holidays, feeling about eight years old at the end of summer in your heavy leather shoes and scratchy wool blazer, do EXACTLY what I did today. Go and eat the Frenchman's sorbet on company time.