Hello, my name is Innocent Loverboy, and I am a love-a-holic.
I love my friends, I love my girlfriend, I love my blog and I love everyone who's reading this right now. I love my cat, I love my family - in some ways - I love certain aspects of my job, I love soft porn and I love sherbet lemons. I am also learning to love (but haven't quite gotten there yet) my new flat, which is on the Piccadilly line and relatively picturesque, but also now means I am living further away from my family, some of my friends and Pandora Blake. All of whom I love.
And my office. I realised, earlier on today, that I particularly love my office.
Okay. It's not exactly my office. It's the main office of the company for which I work and, technically, there are four people in it (more if clients are with us) - but my occasionally homophobic boss has taken to simply not turning up for the majority of the day (he wasn't in at all today) and the other guy (I'm not even sure what his job title is) has another office, which he appears to basically live in. His wife is our administrator and she's busy on account of the fact that she has two small children. I'm on customer service, as well as laissez-faire admin, so I can basically run the place without any hindrance. I've been doing this for the past few days because there's been nobody else there.
It is amazingly peaceful, sitting in an empty office with a computer that has internet access. For a lunch hour (and occasional 'coffee breaks' during the day that are meant to be 10 minutes but occasionally stretch to 25), I can browse freely, with wild abandon and a total lack of restriction, and although I'm not sure I can stretch this to streaming porn (I'm not that secure I won't be interrupted), it does give me some time to read sex blogs and occasionally add comments, even responding to e-mails about sex toy testing and early-'90s softcore. As Glod is my witness, I can even write posts on my own blog in that time.
Which is glorious. I have fond memories of sitting in the computer rooms at university writing my blog - ditto the office of my old job, and the jobs immediately preceding that, and although it's not quite my old room (nothing will ever catch how perfect for blogging my old room was), there is something about being able to write about dirty sex in a place where the computer is intended for administrative purposes and multiple games of Flappy Bird which I find liberating. It allows me to retain the fact that, under it all - this slightly "fuck, I'm an adult" sheen of having a job and a flat and a collection of garden furniture - I am still pure, uncut ILB.
And ILB writes a blog.
Wherever he can.