Everyone’s a Captain Kirk

Working from home has been a revelation, but it does take some adjustments. I still treat it like a work day, up at 7, I even have a wash before my coffee. I have to admit at this point that I don’t dress for the office. Even when I was “at work” I didn’t wear a tie, but I have taken to wearing… let’s call it executive lounge wear… any resemblance to pyjamas is strictly coincidental, I don’t like wearing anything in bed…

After 34 years of marriage there are no mysteries, I’ve seen things that would make your fucking eyes bleed. I’m sure my long suffering other half (from now on MLSOH) has similar scars.

Two of the main problems with working from home are intrinsically linked. I sit on my arse for vast amounts of the day, in a very comfy office chair that’s located about twelve feet from the kettle, biscuits, fridge, and even worse, about four feet from the drinks cabinet. Fat is not just a feminist issue, and if it wasn’t for the fact that MLSOH drags me, kicking and screaming, to the gym four days a week, I would probably be on Jeremy Kyle, fork lift truck parked outside the house, super sized ambulance on standby. Off to eat lettuce for every meal and get shouted at by a borderline psychopath in a white coat.

A slightly different issue with my home bound employment is the lack of crack. I know banter is a dirty word these days, and probably for good reason. But, a good crack at work with good mates is essential for your mental health, it keeps you sharp and prevents l’esprit d’escallier. It can change opinions, educate, and can promote creativity, which drives all kinds of improvements. I do have Huxley, my little mate, but he’s a Guinea pig and they do have limited crack. He goes fucking mental if I open the fridge, which in turn notifies MLSOH that I am eating something. Fucking grass. He is very positive though, never criticises my ideas, and never has a bad word for anyone.

On the plus side, I’m not forced to listen to Steve Wright in the fucking afternoon. I can play my music all day, without the inane ramblings of a DJ who does the same crap he did in ’84, when I first passed my driving test, and Nena sang about luftballons.

As Morrisey once wrote, “hang the dj”

Right! Back to it, I have an email to send and it’s almost lunch.

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