The Financial Times occupies an audaciously undistinguished building on the fringes of the City, in which the carpet tiles are coffee-stained, functional desks are arranged in lines and mice roam freely.
Yet to me the office is entirely satisfactory as it has each of the four things I mind about most. There are interesting people to talk to; a desk of my own that I can keep as tidy or messy as I like; a location easy to get to on a bicycle and a man on the door who says “hello, Lucy” every time I go in.
In an ideal world two further things would be nice: a bit more daylight; a view of something other than a hideous red-brick building. But then I suppose you can’t have everything.
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