I'm Free From The Chair Gang Now

I am in exile. I am part of a depressed diaspora. I am found in far flung corners of our office.

I am hot desking.

I have written previously of our move to the joys of flexible working. Its inception had left me largely unmoved, given my preference for early starts and late finishes (I am the poster girl for the impression of hard work and duty). My seat had remained in my possession. In this, I was aided by a stubborn resistance to our clear desk policy. My mouse mat, my mug, my desk.

Oh, how I scoffed at those who hunted for desks. Oh, how I sniggered at their valiant efforts to sit next to pals. Oh, how I felt so smug as I watched the growing army of the displaced as they fought over the meagre pickings.

Hubris. It could only end in my tears.

I arrive late on Mondays, due to a deficit of dedication to unfeasibly early departures from Derby. This has never mattered. My desk was steadfast, resolute, as it waited to experience the joy of possession. I may have been assisted in this by the unceasing habits of those around me, welded as they were to 'their' desks and 'their' space. I would stroll in mid morning, smile beatifically at colleagues and gaze with a proprietorial pride at my desk.

But not this week.

My desk had a new best friend. Some other bottom warmed my chair. Some other hands graced my keyboard. Some other mug occupied my desk.

I felt a hot flush of shame as I realised that my days of serial monogamy were over. There was nothing to be done. I was dumped. All the other desks were taken, embarking on happy new fulfilling relationships with their loved ones. I trudged disconsolately to the 'touchdown' area. This is the Heartbreak Hotel of workspaces. Those who sit there are the displaced, little lost souls, who squeeze themselves into half the usual space and bump elbows with their neighbours.

I was humpty and no mistake.

But, as I grumped through the morning, working in splendid isolation, I realised that there may be some benefit to my situation. My boss could not see me. I was out from under his beady gaze. The air was heavy with the scent of liberation. I was free to work untroubled and uninterrupted. I was productive, but invisible.

It was with some regret that I returned to my desk the next day. It seemed strangely unappealing as I surveyed its familiar features. I felt a pull towards the exciting fulfilment of the previous day. The prospect of the same daily rigmarole seemed dull as I recalled the achievements of actually finishing work. I wanted to be back with my new desk. My old desk sensed it. Somehow, it seemed inevitable that my PC wouldn't work, no matter how much I tried to turn it on.