In my heatwave uniform of bra and pants, I’m not convinced I could pass muster in Rees-Mogg’s uptight office

The new government is barely a week old and apparently Jacob Rees-Mogg, as the newly appointed leader of the Commons, has already begun dishing out rules for his new staff.

Actually, if you read the small print, the laws Jakey boy wants laying down are some years old, but as there’s nothing wrong with a bit of recycling, let’s just remind ourselves of what my fellow speccy four eyes finds acceptable or not in the workplace.

Well for starters there’s a long list of words he’d rather not hear bandied about the office, including “hopeful”, “yourself”, “equal” and “unacceptable”. Then there’s some stuff about typography and grammar, including a reminder to double-space after full stops and to avoid commas after the word “and”, he is also requesting that all non-titled males be given the suffix “esquire” and that imperial rather than metric measurements should be used at all times.

Rumour has it that he’s converting the durex machine in the gents to take shillings.

It’s been a very long time since I worked in an office and was expected to dance to someone else’s tune. Actually, come to think of it, I’ve never worked in an office in my life and it’s a bit late to start applying now. I’m 59 and no doubt unemployable, thanks in most part to taking my shoes off at the earliest opportunity, putting my feet up on the desk and picking as much dry skin off my heels as I can.

Also last week, when it was really hot, I worked in my bra and pants. Oh listen, I appal myself.

Freelancers like me who work mostly from home have no idea what it’s like to endure office politics. Sometimes when a mate tells me about stuff they have to put up with at work and I ask “why don’t you just tell so and so to f*** off then?”, they have to explain that you can’t do swearing in the workplace and anyway “so and so” is their line manager. Sorry, your what?

I haven’t a clue about the terminology or etiquette that would pass muster in offices today, but from what I can gather there’s a lot of team playing and pulling together and not slagging anyone off in the toilets or drawing rude pictures on steamed-up windows behind the boss’s desk. Oh dear. And as for having to contribute to “Jean in finance’s engagement present”, no way, who is Jean anyway?

I reckon I’ve saved thousands of pounds from never putting money in an old biscuit tin to contribute to any work-related social event, not to mention the millions saved on rarely having to commute.

Anyway, I couldn’t work in an office, I wouldn’t know what to wear – I think you’re meant to toe that smart casual line that I have never quite fully understood. I’m used to working in my pyjamas – maybe if I teamed them up with a patent belt and some low-heeled court shoes and put some lipstick on it might look like I was wearing a suit?

As for office hours, that’s got to be hard, because I think you’re meant to go in every day, even when you don’t feel like it and would rather lie on a bean bag watching Stranger Things whilst eating popcorn out of your tummy button.

Of course there are cons to working from home too, so before you all write me off as a smug cow, you office types might have to endure terrible commutes and lunchtime sushi queues but don’t have to deal with the crushing loneliness and sudden mid-afternoon, out-of-the-blue financial panic and the weepy inability to think of any new ideas.

So I can’t see my working circumstances changing any time soon and anyway, who in their right mind would employ me? I’m lazy, my keyboard is a filthy petri dish and I keep out-of-date coleslaw in the fridge. But even I’m fed up with how things are going round here, so I’m going to take a leaf out of Mr Rees-Mogg’s book and try to instil some discipline amongst the staff (ie me).

open image in gallery

From now on, I expect me to retain a cheerful disposition in the study, at least until lunchtime, when if it’s still not happening I may go for a brisk walk.

No more than three afternoon naps a week and no more pretending to be a bit ill but not ill enough to go to the doctors.

To seriously look into those apps that can block my social media platforms and to stop pretending I am working when I am looking at “dachshunds of instagram”.

Meals to be eaten downstairs on the kitchen table and trips to the fridge restricted to no more than three a day.

Cheese snacking limited to Wednesday afternoons only, and only after 2,000 words have been a-cheesed, (sorry typo), “achieved”.

No twitter stalking people who are doing better than I am.

No drinking and typing.

No heavy petting.

Hmmm, just read that lot back, I think I resign.