![]() ![]() It was the first office I’d worked in where I noticed the smell: the musty perfume of newsprint clung to my clothes and hair long after I left work in the evening. Everywhere there were stacks and stacks of old copies of the magazine. They were all littered with books, flyers, invitations to events and packages which it was my job to open, scrutinise and, if important, distribute to the relevant editors (one or two Mac lipsticks were, if I’m honest, distributed directly into my handbag). The office was bursting at the seams, with desks shoved into odd corners, corridors and under stairs. The staff had long ago outgrown the space. To walk under its enormous neon sign, which projected confidently above the Tottenham Court Road, was to be catapulted back into the Swinging Sixties London in which the magazine had been founded: the office was all teak shelves, swirly yellow and brown carpets, and hungover journalists quietly recounting what they did last night (no one ever seemed to stay in). ![]() In 2006 I was a journalism student when I hit the work-experience jackpot: a month-long internship at Time Out, the magazine that for half a century embodied going out in London (and more lately New York, Paris, and a host of other cities).
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