How. How is this even possible to achieve.
Start with the fact that I’m working whilst in PJ bottoms, t-shirt and a cardigan. No heels, no shirt, no client-friendly outfit for me. There’s no reason for me to put on the office niceties I would normally wear. Already the comfort levels have hit dizzying heights, increased by the fact that I know that today is a weekday and therefore the guilty pleasure is doubled.
However, despite the above we all know that there’s no force on earth that could compel me to put on my office wardrobe while working from home.
I’ve relocated myself from the clothes strewn boudoir (which is honestly too nice a title for the Pit of Filth I inhabit), and am sitting downstairs at the dining table: laptop opened up jauntily in front of me with its power cable umbilical keeping it alive, the house phone relocated to just within arms-reach (after an interesting game of Snake The Cord Around As Many Obstacles As Possible), glass of water, notepad and pen, USB mouse, by all accounts I’m ready to go.
The birds are making a lot of noise in the garden. Is the cat back? Do I need to go and do my mad shouting lady dance to scare the feline assassin away?
No, no cat out there, just baby starlings throwing tantrums. Whenever their parents disappear these little grey/black teenage balls of fluff keep themselves occupied by pecking and foraging and doing whatever good little hungry birds do; but as soon as the parents return from whatever escapades they’ve been up to, the little starlings relapse into shouting, bratty, screaming, begging babies. There’s probably some sort of deep, wise comparison to be made between us and them I’m sure.
Ok, so we’ve established that the birds are ok, but I can’t help notice that my water glass could do with a top up.
Right, back at my ‘desk’ ready to get on with it. Grip it and rip it, Eye of the Tiger and all that. Ooooh, it’s raining, better go get the washing in.
This is pretty much how my day’s gone so far.
I can work from home, I’ve done so over many arctic winters where the snow piles up to anywhere around 3″ high and our country drops to its knees while pulling its hair and weeping, “We didn’t know, how could we have predicted such a cruel winter, aiiiieeee woe is us, we have no grit left as someone (you know who you are Mr ‘We’ll Learn From Last Year…And The Year Before’) forgot to order enough, how will we survive; doomed, we’re all doomed.”
Each year I also learn that my tolerance levels for a snowball to the face has steadily increased; I even take a small measure of delight at the prospect of a snowy deathmatch with the children living in my village. I also learn that Ford Fiesta cars are Russian workhorses: when all my colleagues fail to slide their cars off the end of their driveways, it’s my solid little batmobile steadily chug-chug-chugging away up hill and down dale that gets me to work and earns me a serious amount of brownie points.
I’ve worked today, don’t get me wrong, I haven’t just sat here twiddling my thumbs and doodling on my PJs (pink and floral in case you’re wondering, but I assure you not too girly: they’re a passable pale pastel with a token nod at the world of flora, bizarrely suited to both the icy depths of Winter and the sweltering haze of Summer): I’ve inter-spaced things with candidate calls, sending out emails, bringing admin up to date and so on, but I’ve just lacked the killer edge that comes from being in the office, surrounded by encouraging, hardworking colleagues and the heady, almost palpable sense of contagious excitement.
Maybe it’s the weather that’s stolen my zing today. I do so love blaming the weather for all that’s wrong: Are people in a bad mood? That’ll be the rain putting the dampener on their va va voom. Do you have a headache? Ah, I nod wisely, that’s all down to air pressure. So I’m blaming it on the weather: a weird mix of slightly chilled and yet humid, cool and yet with a warm undertone, and the threat of rain in the air. So all in all a typical British summers day.
Yes, you’re right, this blog is simply another method of diversion. Ok, ciao all, back to the grindstone.