
The Popbitch office was everything I could have hoped for and more: a poky room, cluttered with odd collectibles and mundane office supplies, on the ground floor of a creaky Soho townhouse that had been converted into a shared office space.
On one shelf, a pack of Chairman Mao playing cards was propped up by a box of ink cartridges. On another, a Russian doll depicting Dmitry Medvedev was nestled between a bag of Fairtrade coffee and a stapler. A third was occupied by a mysterious silver suitcase and a white Bosch kettle, half filled.
After greeting me at the front door with a firm handshake, Popbitch boss Camilla Wright – dressed half smart with a silky black shirt up top and bright green trainers below – showed me to a seat at the far end of a rectangular metal table that took up much of the room. When she disappeared into a communal kitchen to make us some herbal teas, I took the opportunity to absorb my surroundings.
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