Working holiday


A shiny new apartment block with luxury flats for sale sprouted up next to the bus-stop I get off for work. The Tesco’s I drop into every morning to grab a bottle of water had completely changed their store layout. My desk was moved into another office unit, so I am now in my third office in the same number of years I’ve been working here.

I felt single and childless when I was at work, just like how it was when I first started. It was a bit hard to imagine there REALLY was a 2-ft little man driving mad my shrivelled old man at home while I bashed out emails at my desk. I answered the occasional phone call, replied to my emails, chatted to colleagues at break, enjoyed an unhurried lunch. Oh my goodness, why didn’t anyone tell me work was really a holiday as compared to being a Mummy?

I ended my first day with a long, catch-up meeting with my line manager, who sat at the table to fill me in on all the updates over the nine months I’d been gone. It took three hours. When I first joined we were a five-people outfit, crammed in a tiny messy unit and we’d just been awarded this four-year million-pound government project. Three years on we occupy all the units on the top floor of the office block, got on our plate another million-pound government project, bullied/threatened the council into building extra toilets on our floor.

I felt rather overwhelmed at the end of my day. It felt like my first day all over again, except I already knew everybody in the office.

Explore posts in the same categories: Drama, Family, Work

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