It seemed like we’d be WFH forever

Despite the grumblings of her staff and the potential for a “back to school” rise in Covid cases, my boss Bella pushed ahead with her plan for “La Rentree”. We were all to be back in the office on Wednesday 8am for our first face-to-face IRL staff meeting since March 2020.

Going back to the office wasn’t going to be such a problem for me as it was for some of the others. I live a short Tube ride away. If pushed I could be at my desk in half an hour by bicycle. I’ve got a bicycle, but for the past two years it hasn’t moved from my hallway, where it doubles as a handy place to hang wet coats and umbrellas. Its tyres are flat and I’ve got no idea what happened to the pump. Occasionally, I catch my shin on a pedal and tell myself I’ll move it.

I bought my bike as part of a plan to get fit by cycling into the office on those days when I didn’t have a meeting that required dressing up. I pictured myself serenely gliding into work, having filled my lungs with fresh air instead of Tube fug. The fantasy was cut short when I stopped to catch my breath at the entrance to Battersea Bridge and caused a ten-MAMIL pile-up.

“I would pay good money to find myself at the bottom of a heap of men dressed in Lycra,” said George at the time.

I was able to assure him that it wasn’t all that it cracked up to be, especially when the men in Lycra were mostly angry Price Waterhouse consultants, who were convinced they might have been Bradley Wiggins if it weren’t for having to get a “proper job” to support the wife and kids. Anyway, the Tube seemed a much safer bet than taking up cycling again, even with Covid still rife.

I saw my neighbour Brenda as I was setting off. She wanted to talk about our new postie, who hasn’t been pushing letters all the way through her letterbox. “Leaves them half hanging out. Anyone could pinch them. Has that happened to you?”

“I haven’t noticed but I don’t get much post.” In fact, the last item to land on my doormat was a postcard from our old postie Glenn in Devon. I almost asked Brenda if she’d had one too but decided against it. I wanted to pretend I was special for a little while longer.

Brenda had a lot to say about the new postal situation but I cut her short.

“I’m going back to the office.”

“On the Tube?”

She looked horrified. “Here,” she said, handing me two fresh masks from the packet she always carried in her handbag. “I’d double up if I were you.” She was probably right. I saw two people taking lateral flow tests in my carriage.

I was the first to arrive at Bella Vista’s offices in the basement of a big old house in Fulham. My office key still worked, although the lock could have done with some WD40. It was hard to push the door open though. A huge pile of post had built up since anyone was last there. Even Bella hadn’t visited the office since the beginning of July.

Despite not having been used in so long, the office smelled exactly as I remembered it. Slightly unsanitary. Although it wasn’t very warm outside, when I opened the window onto the yard for some air, the whiff from the bins was positively Proustian.

Of the office plants, only my cactus had survived. I gave it a glug of water from a bottle I had only half-finished on that day back in March 2020 when we bumped elbows in lieu of hugs and went home to await the Apocalypse. I opened the bottom drawer of my desk where I kept my personal effects. There were my emergency biscuits! A whole unopened packet. Result. I felt like I deserved one after my commute. Alas, they’d gone out of date last September and I had nothing to get rid of the taste of dust having given the cactus my water. I filled a filthy coffee cup in the office kitchen, then panicked about Legionnaires’. I left the taps running while I waited for the others to show up.

The office WhatsApp (everyone except the boss) buzzed with news of ETAs. George was stuck on the M25, having decided to drive in. Big mistake. Sarah was somewhere near Crewe. She’d taken advantage of lockdown to move to Edinburgh; a fact she had yet to share with Bella. She still hoped she wouldn’t have to quite yet.

Sarah arrived with a minute to spare before our scheduled meeting. She looked broken. She told us she had been up since three to make sure she could get in on time.

“Why didn’t you take the sleeper train?” George asked.

“Because its fully-booked until Christmas by all the other people who accidentally moved to Scotland when it seemed like we’d be WFH forever.”

At two minutes past ten, there was still no sign of Bella. At quarter past, we all received a message on the official WhatsApp group (everyone including the boss).

George read it first. “It’s Bella. She’s not coming in. She’s just tested positive for Covid.”

Sarah sank to the floor in relief. For the next 10 days at least, it wouldn’t matter if she was in Edinburgh and not in Fulham. Before she could go straight back to King’s Cross, however, we had to make sure that Bella knew we had all schlepped to the office as instructed. We gathered around George’s desk for a Zoom call.

Bella looked distinctly peaky. “But I will be in the trenches alongside you, just as soon as I can.”

“Noooo!” we all chorused. “Don’t put your health in jeopardy.”

“And don’t wear yourself out with too many Zoom calls,” I added. “Proper rest is key.”

Call over, those of us who had made it in scattered to our various corners of the UK again, in a far happier mood than when we’d last left our desks. We all agreed that the best way to ease back into office life was to do it very, very gradually, and it was definitely a very good idea to get home again before rush hour.