Imagine this, and variations of this. All the fucking time. Handed to you by barefooted guys with dreadlocks and face-punchingly earnest young women named Clemence who you can’t even hate-fuck or you’ll lose your job and have to go back to pulling coffees in that hole-in-the-wall place in Balaclava where all the Jewish mothers look at you funny because they can just TELL that while you’re circumcised, you’re probably Church of England and at any minute are going to pour milk into the shellfish sink and ruin EVERYTHING.
That’s what it’s like to teach typography to first-year students at the National School of Design, I imagine.