The empty office, extinguished lights and coffee rings remind you of another fork in the road. The keypasses, the screensavers, the in-trays. By day it’s abuzz with emails and banter, pot plants, complaints of the traffic and “how was your weekend”.
But in the dim evening, it’s a hollow museum to administration, to the art of form-filling. It’s empty, quiet, alone.
This office consumed the lives of many but the news will never report that. Suzanne Williams and her 7 colleagues experienced a slow painful death of the soul during 30 years of office work. They never played much. They never danced much. They never ventured out their comfort zone much. Life was busy – kids, work, husbands, wives, family, television. It was what it was. No need to ask questions. No need to do anything, except follow the rules and stay within the lines.
Life was easy. Except when she awoke at 3AM with a vague sense of uneasiness.
She would boil the kettle, skim through the channels before finding something comforting. It would do the job. A cup of Horlicks before snuggling up to her snoring husband.
It was what it was.
Sometimes she’ll smile at a simpler time, her carefree student days – the pubs, the bike rides, the boyfriends that seemed to matter so much back then.
Sometimes she dreams of leaving her job – moving to Italy, to a stone house, raising chickens or something. That’s what people did on a Place in the Sun. It seemed so easy on TV.
Then she’d stare at her inbox, then her boss, and realise she had to get on with her day.