I started a new job, as a Social Media Analyst, in July; A really interesting, every-day-is-different sort of job and I love it. I work a mixture of shifts; early mornings, late nights, days and weekends. The hours that I work mean that during the school holidays I am here, at home, with the children.
My work pattern also means that when the children are at school, I am here, at home, for 7 hours a day, alone. I tell you what … I bet most of you would kill for 7 hours a day to do whatever you want with. I’m here to tell you it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
I’ve noticed, since I became a work at home recluse; I am no longer on Twitter ALL THE TIME, I don’t spend as much time blogging, I take too much interest in the neighbours’ daily schedules, I’ve thought about having gin with my breakfast cereal, I’m not laughing enough, I’ve realised that when the house is quiet I can hear everything the neighbours are doing next door and I listen to Radio 4 way more than I probably should.
Although I’m managing to get on with writing projects it’s too bloody quiet; no children asking for a drink/sliced apple/emergency mediator, no desperate cries of “Muuuuuuum” from two floors away, no small people asking to share your chair/lunch/iphone/laptop/secret stash of Crunchie bars.
“It sounds like Heaven” I hear you cry.
For the first week it was bliss, but now? I miss the noise, the hustle and bustle, the warmth that comes from small children sitting on my knee, the crazy conversations and the giggling. I also took for granted banter, work gossip and laughter with colleagues the past 16 years.
I have considered installing a water cooler in the living room with a series of cardboard cutout colleagues to talk to. On Monday, the cardboard cutout, who I would name Tara Masalata, would tell me what she got up to at the weekend. I would tell her that perhaps her upper lip was in need of a wax. On Tuesday, Corey Ander, the work experience boy would tell me some inane gossip about the managing director and his secretary. Oh how we would laugh. I reckon by Thursday my cardboard cutout colleague, who would look a lot like George Clooney, would suggest we ditch work for the afternoon and have a party. We’d fill the water cooler with gin, eat cheese straws and dance to early 90s classics. By Friday I’d be all laughed out and most likely sectioned under the mental health act.
So there you go, be careful what you wish for … unless it’s cardboard, looks a lot like George Clooney carrying a box of cheese straws and a large bottle of gin.
My work pattern also means that when the children are at school, I am here, at home, for 7 hours a day, alone. I tell you what … I bet most of you would kill for 7 hours a day to do whatever you want with. I’m here to tell you it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
I’ve noticed, since I became a work at home recluse; I am no longer on Twitter ALL THE TIME, I don’t spend as much time blogging, I take too much interest in the neighbours’ daily schedules, I’ve thought about having gin with my breakfast cereal, I’m not laughing enough, I’ve realised that when the house is quiet I can hear everything the neighbours are doing next door and I listen to Radio 4 way more than I probably should.
Although I’m managing to get on with writing projects it’s too bloody quiet; no children asking for a drink/sliced apple/emergency mediator, no desperate cries of “Muuuuuuum” from two floors away, no small people asking to share your chair/lunch/iphone/laptop/secret stash of Crunchie bars.
“It sounds like Heaven” I hear you cry.
For the first week it was bliss, but now? I miss the noise, the hustle and bustle, the warmth that comes from small children sitting on my knee, the crazy conversations and the giggling. I also took for granted banter, work gossip and laughter with colleagues the past 16 years.
I have considered installing a water cooler in the living room with a series of cardboard cutout colleagues to talk to. On Monday, the cardboard cutout, who I would name Tara Masalata, would tell me what she got up to at the weekend. I would tell her that perhaps her upper lip was in need of a wax. On Tuesday, Corey Ander, the work experience boy would tell me some inane gossip about the managing director and his secretary. Oh how we would laugh. I reckon by Thursday my cardboard cutout colleague, who would look a lot like George Clooney, would suggest we ditch work for the afternoon and have a party. We’d fill the water cooler with gin, eat cheese straws and dance to early 90s classics. By Friday I’d be all laughed out and most likely sectioned under the mental health act.
So there you go, be careful what you wish for … unless it’s cardboard, looks a lot like George Clooney carrying a box of cheese straws and a large bottle of gin.