Been staring at that empty unit on Moseley Road for three months now, imagining my own chair, my own playlist, no boss breathing down my neck about "retail targets" 🤷♂️ Problem is every time I run the numbers my stomach does that thing where it drops through the floor — deposit, fit-out, insurance, the VAT registration alone makes me want a pint at 11am. Dad reckons I've got "hands like gold" and should just "crack on," but he also thought his fantasy football team was a pension plan so maybe