There’s more to life than work

As I write this I am standing on the tube with two full Tesco bags literally dripping with sweat after sprinting from the office to the tube station because I’m rushing home to make dinner for a friend.

The stress of this situation’s got me thinking: Why is it only on the days you really have to leave the office on time that a million and one things crop up at 5.01pm that require your immediate attention? Is it some kind of divine test? If yes then I’m afraid I’ve failed, because not only have I not managed to deal with the million and one things that cropped up (I maybe managed four), I have also fully lost my composure (hence the sweaty mess that virtually stands before you-though it must be said that this ridiculously hot day has also played a significant part in that).

I suppose I should be grateful that these days I have a job where I’m usually able to leave soon after 5pm. Back in the dark days when I worked in leaflet distribution (I’m shuddering as I type those words) I regularly stayed in the office until 10pm, which is ironic given how unimportant that job was compared to the one I have now (I’m not sure my ex-boss would agree with that, or my ex-client come to that, but it’s true).

Even in my last job working for another charity I rarely got out of the office before 7pm. Working late is a culture, I know, especially in central London, but it’s one I’m no longer prepared to adhere to at the expense of my sanity and mental well being, especially now I’m in my thirties (sob).

In the vast majority of cases I doubt people’s productivity at the end of a ten or more hour stint in front of the computer is even worth their being there, but often they feel duty bound to stay because others are, or because they fear their slave driver boss will haul them over the coals if they leave (which, if my previous experience is anything to go by, they most likely will).

Well, count me out thanks very much. After ten years of imbalance I’m taking it back and making time for ME. I do my job and do it well, but at the end of the day I want to have an evening, whether it be to enjoy with my friends, exercise or do my writing. Without that I feel trapped, and whilst I’d rather not be sweating into my shopping bags right now because I’m so desperate to enjoy my evening, when I’m drinking an ice cold glass of Pinot Grigio by 6.30pm it will all have been worth it. Cheers.

Moment in time

It is half past eleven on the London underground; Oxford Circus, Victoria Line southbound.

A girl stands on the platform, her head swaying in unselfconscious appreciation of the rock music being delivered into her ears by her oversized headphones. She stoops to tie a lace in her steel toe-capped boots, pulls her multi-coloured knee socks up, yawns and wipes a heavily charcoaled eye with the back of a fingerless glove-clad hand, oblivious to those around her.

The train pulls into the platform. Unusually there’s no scrum as the doors open, most of the seats being already taken by tipsy revellers reluctant to miss the last easy way home. The girl walks down the carriage and stops in the middle. She grasps the hand rail and blows a bubble with her gum, thinking of her thesis and wondering if smoking a joint when she gets home will make tomorrow a literal write off.

To the girl’s right are a couple so deeply entrenched in one another’s oral cavities it’s hard to see where one ends and the other begins. When they finally come up for air they entwine fingers and stare at one another with the intense longing of first love. The man mouths the three words his partner is aching to hear. She flushes scarlet and smiles a smile so dazzling her soul seems to shine right out of her cherubic face. She lays her blonde head on the man’s shoulder and they stare contentedly into the middle distance.

Beside the couple a boy is slumped in his seat, his head lolling forward in a comical fashion. He is wearing a baseball cap with NYC emblazoned across it, and his baggy jeans are so low slung the crotch almost drags on the floor. In his hand he clasps a takeaway box, the prize at the end of a long night. Though some are eyeing him with suspicion, no doubt mistaking him for a drunk, he’s just come off a double shift at work and is exhausted.

The doors beep and start to close, but not before the dreadlocked man who has been busking in the station for the past three hours manages to leap through them, guitar case in hand, prompting a mixture of tuts and nods of appreciation from his fellow passengers. He props the guitar case against the rail and starts to hum a melody, not for money but for his own unbridled pleasure.

Further along the carriage an elderly man is engaged in conversation with two bespectacled students, imparting his worldliness over the course of three tube stops. They watch him intently, rapt in his presence as their own worlds pale into insignificance in the shadow of the one he has seen. There is not, they all know, enough time to hear it all.

Opposite the students sits a girl, pale and drawn with tell-tale streaks of mascara running in rivulets down her cheeks. She knows she is a cliché, the archetypal jilted lover, but her heart feels close to breaking and she doesn’t care who sees the emotion etched across her face.

By the door in the middle of the carriage a drunk, middle-aged couple giggle like school children. The woman flicks her chestnut curls and pivots around the rail, prompting the man to grab her by the waist and prevent her from toppling over. She laughs, at once both wild and tamed.

At length the train pulls into the platform at Victoria. The girl with the headphones leaves first, confident now that she will smoke a joint when she reaches home. She is closely followed by the kissing couple, still smiling as if, in each other, they’ve discovered Utopia. Next the busker lifts his guitar case and exits the carriage with an easy hop. The students sigh and bid goodbye to their mentor who is, he tells them, will be staying to the end of the line. The jilted girl drifts through the doors ahead of the laughing couple, who stumble down the platform arm in arm, singing something unintelligible. As the doors begin to beep the boy with the takeaway box awakes. He leaps up and hurls himself through the closing gap in the nick of time, his takeaway box left behind like a casualty of war.

Off they go, into the night. Never will they meet again, but will forever be indelibly joined by that one moment in time.


This is possibly my favourite picture from my travels. I took it from the rooftop of a hotel in Jaipur, India, and didn’t for a single moment think it would come out as well as it did. I think it perfectly signifies the frenetic rush of city living and, as such, is a suitable accompaniment to this post.