I’m doing a little housekeeping in my meatspace space, otherwise known as offline, otherwise known as Operation Global Media Domination HQ, otherwise known as my office.

Now, originally my office was in my apartment, which looks like this, only without the vintage Burgess Meredith:

Then, one glorious day, I got a slot at Workspace, which looked like this:

What Is WorkSpace?

WorkSpace is a shared work environment in downtown Vancouver. Our Gastown loft has meeting rooms, a lounge & a café surrounding a beautiful open concept work environment. We provide memberships (not leases) to independent professionals and small firms looking for a better place to work.

but now Workspace is no more. Indeed, there I was, sitting at my desk, typing away (or more accurately I was surfing Gawker and monitoring drunken spats among my Followees on Twitter) at one in the morning, when a cheery Asian fellow walked in and started unplugging the routers and pulling the art down off the walls.

Normally, this would not bother me, but I quite liked that art and besides, I was only there because I was acting as a fierce, even vicious replacement for a guard dog, keeping Workspace safe for all the bloggers of Gastown, and I thought I should at least try to earn my keep.

I raised an eyebrow.

Apparently, I do so in a very menacing fashion, for he immediately began apologizing.

Aha, he’s Canadian! I thought. I’m very used to intimidating Canadian men (ask any of them): the only ones I can’t seem to intimidate are Albanians, but I think that’s just because they are too thick to understand the danger.

I got some mumbled excuse about “doing a changeover.” Well, sure, I’ve only been here a few weeks, I thought. Maybe they DO bring in fresh art in the middle of the night on Tuesdays. How would I know?

And so, because I am Canadian and, thus, good at rationalizing when faced with a polite young man in techie-approved cargo shorts, I let it go.

Well, almost.

In fact, I hit up the only cop I know on Twitter, which has the benefit that you can use it while the perp is still in the room and he probably thinks you’re just reposting a lolcat or some damn thing. Alas, the cop was away on vacation (and why doesn’t 911 have text input? Eh? Wouldn’t that be darn handy? Sure as tootin’ it would be!) and so my tweets went into the void.

More than usual, I mean.

So I go out to the kitchen to make myself a coffee, to find yet another guy packing up the espresso machine.

This was getting serious. You Do! Not! Fuck! With my right to espresso.

So Yet Another Guy was, in fact, someone I’d already met, again in the middle of the night at Workspace, and when I did he seemed quite startled to find me there. He told me he was the owner, and then farted around here and there, not doing any work, but also not settling down and doing any thing at all, just sort of haunting the place and keeping an eye on me. I outlasted him that time, and left with the dawn.

So I have, at this point: one stranger dude and one “I’m the owner. No, really” dude, and I’m getting a “this isn’t the whole truth” vibe off both of them. So what do I do?

I give them the espresso test.

“Gee, I was kinda hoping to make myself a coffee,” I say, wistful-like, for if there’s one thing any Vancouverite can sympathize with, it’s caffeine withdrawl.

Quick as a flash and quite palpably sincerely, Yet Another Guy offered to fire up the big, professional espresso machine that only the daytime pros get to use and make me a latte.

He passed the espresso test.

I mean, in all likelihood 40% of burglars in Vancouver have at least some barista training, even if they flamed out in the first week. Let’s face it: in all likelihood 40% of Vancouverites overall have barista experience, and the only reason it isn’t more is all the old people and babies. But they very rarely show visible familiarity with the machines they are trying to disconnect and cart off.

So, espresso test passed, I leave the guys to get on with their de-Workspacecombobulation.

The next day, Hummingbird604 tells me Workspace is kaput. Well, technically, kaputting on Friday. Whereupon I hit up Twitter and Facebook and start screaming all over the internets, looking for another sweet deal of the same nature or, really, just a swivel chair in some drafty hallway.

Will Blog For Shelter.

Which brings me to my new home: The Network Hub. Which looks like this:

which is a great deal more “Silicon Alley loft” and a great deal less “stunning view over the water to the mountains and inside there are always models wandering around” but still unquestionably more than I deserve. Hoping to move Eve the laptop and sundry papers over in the next 24 hours, and quite probably a wall hanging or two. Ah, I remember my first day at an office job for Starbucks; they were taking the new corporate accountant and partner relations manager around and introducing them, and I was pinning up a batik so I didn’t have to stare at the grey tweed of a cubicle all damn day, and I didn’t even get off the desk to shake hands. I think they were impressed.[oh well, it was good while it lasted (3 days?)]

Dooced!

More later…that’s a threat!