Hybrid working: the bold idea that you could combine the freedom of home with the joy of the office. The result is the commute of one, the video calls of the other, and the loneliness of both. Here is your timetable. It is also your life.
Monday: Home
You are at home. The washing machine is your only colleague, and the only one who finishes a cycle. Six video calls. In each, someone says “we should really discuss this in person on Wednesday”. Nobody will. Your trousers have opted out. So, broadly, have you.
Tuesday: Home, Allegedly
Your status dot is green because you nudged the mouse at 10:14. Between 2pm and 3pm you did a full week of focused work. It went unnoticed. The dot got the credit.
Wednesday: Anchor Day
The mandatory office day. You commute for 88 minutes, which over a career adds up to a whole year of your one life, spent beside a stranger’s backpack. You arrive. Your team is not here. They chose Thursday. You join a video call. The people on it are four rows away, also on the call, because every meeting room is booked for other calls.
Hybrid working means you can now be lonely in two different locations, and pay a train fare for the second one.
Thursday: Office, Sort Of
You come in again because your team is in. Your team does not come in because the train strike moved. A colleague you’ve only ever seen from the shoulders up walks past. He is much taller than his camera. He doesn’t recognise you. Nobody here ever will.
Friday: Nobody Is Anywhere
Friday is not officially a day off. Friday is a vibe. Emails slow. Somebody posts a photo of a dog at 11am. The dog has a better work-life balance than you, and a shorter life to waste on it.
The Following Monday
An email announces that, based on the engagement survey, the company will move to four anchor days “to rebuild our culture”. The office lease, you note, has eleven years left on it. The culture was always the lease.