In which our reluctant hero discovers that a working-class hero is something to be. Or something.
On Wednesday, I had a(nother) rare(ish) working at home day.
In the olden days, before Jesus invented laptops and the Internet, I had assumed that “working at home” was some sort of code. This was based on there being pretty much no work that an average civil servant could do at home. Yet, still it went on. The following day, there would usually be an unexplained injury, sunburn or a curious whiff of white spirit from my colleagues.
In my head, WAH on the office board translated as follows;
- Spring – Decorating the spare bedroom
- Summer – Mowing the lawn, cutting the hedge or falling asleep in the garden while listening to the cricket
- Autumn – Raking leaves up and making chutney
- Winter – Christmas shopping. Or drinking.
Now that I have the technology to escape from the office, this theory is kind of validated. Folk work in some funny places these days, yet the only place conducive for effective working is an actual office.
As I bash this out, the woman sat next to me on the train is working. I’m not keen on working on the train. There’s insufficient elbow room to use a not-as-smart-as-it-thinks-it-is-phone let alone a laptop for starters. There’s also the risk of spillage from the latest performance of the Paper Coffee Cup Dancing Company. Factor in no Internet and Mr “I’m about to go into a tunnel… Hello… HELLO!” in the opposite seat and it’s barely worth logging on.
While working on trains is out, working at home is slightly more achievable with a bit of discipline. However, throw small children into the mix, and that’s a different proposition.
The state of the house should cause the first klaxon to sound. Look around. Does it look like an environment where anything gets done? There’s last week’s washing still on the radiators, dust covering the telly and Shreddies trampled into the carpet. And that’s just the dining room.
My typical working day involves getting in super early and hammering my “to do” list for several hours before the “urgent” distractions (bad planning/incompetence of others) and general apathy kick in.
The earliest that I can realistically start working at home is 8:15, once everyone has gone. However, it takes another half an hour to make a brew, de-stress and clear enough space to set the laptop up, by which point it’s not worth starting until 9:00.
Up to lunchtime, some of what I’m getting paid for actually gets done. As does some washing.
The boy normally arrives back at about midday so it seems sensible to stop for lunch. He will be in immediate need of a cheese sandwich (yellow, not orange cheese) with cucumber on the side, not on the sandwich. And Peppa Pig on the telly please. Every. Single. Day.
At around 1pm, the sandwich will either be eaten or chucked in a tub in the fridge to be thrown out later.
If my wife is home, I will have about two hours to sneak a bit more work in before the big one gets back from school. Whatever I’m doing from then will have to wait as the laptop will be part of the doctor’s waiting room, school or birthday party that my makeshift office has become.
At this point, it’s officially time to give up. It’s nearly tea time anyway, and we’ll need the dining room table soon.
Not to worry. The thing about working at home is that it doesn’t matter when I do the work, as long as I do it. I can simply make the time up in the evening, once the kids are asleep.
Here’s a top tip. The best way to mentally prepare for a couple of hours of focus and hard graft is to avoid the following;
Making tea, helping the kids eat their tea, binning uneaten tea, washing up, wiping remnants of tea off the table, chairs and possibly walls, tidying up, hoovering, bath time, chasing after children with ‘jamas time, tidying up the stuff that was brought back out while dealing with the mini bathroom flood, and arguing about teeth, stories and bed.
With the kids safely incarcerated, cue collapse, relaxing beverage of choice and shouting at the end of The One Show. Game over. Work was never going to happen, was it?
The scores on the doors are usually as follows;
- Work Completed – Some
- Flexi Balance – Four hours debit
I’ve got used to it now, though. I know that I need a few hours in the bank, and I need to prioritise. That way it feels like I’m achieving something. Probably.
The moral of the story is a familiar one to parents and home workers alike.
If at first you don’t succeed, redefine success.
Fin.