The office mug  My RTO dreams were just clouds in her coffee

My second is forgetting to bring my own mug and accidentally nicking my manager’s. I spot her staring at it, a look of silent, seething rage on her face, during the morning meeting. At first, I think maybe I’ve got something on my top and then, when her PA comes over afterwards, I realise my mistake.

My third error is thinking no one will mind if I leave at 6pm. Presenteeism, as I find out the next day when the office manager has a “gentle word”, is still alive and well. Who knew?!

You see, after a decade and a half of WFH, RTO is quite the culture shock. Everything has changed: from content management systems, to the (now invisible) kitchen taps. I’m old enough to remember the days of smoking rooms and fax machines. So, being surrounded by tech-savvy Gen Zers using Slack, Google Docs and various platforms I’ve never even heard of takes a bit of getting used to.

I’m here helping out at a media company a friend works for. They are a bit short-staffed. So, when she asks if I’d like to come into a proper office for a bit, I jump at the chance. After 15 years of WFH, my usual ‘look’ bears more than a close resemblance to The Dude from The Big Lebowski, so I’m looking forward to dressing up a bit and having some adult conversation after years of talking to the cat and dog. The prospect of a trip to Leon for lunch appeals following years of eating baked beans on toast.

Glancing around at my new colleagues who are all squinting at their screen or typing away furiously, I wonder how long it might be acceptable to take for lunch and how often I should offer to make the tea.

I am trying to gauge who is who in the office hierarchy. The bigwigs sit in the senior management hub, which I nickname the ‘ring of fire’. Other than that, I have no idea who anyone is, but am expected by the end of my first week to know everyone’s names. Yikes.

During my second week, my line manager asks me to work on something with a tight deadline. I have no idea how I can concentrate in a noisy office with people making small talk all around me.

I quietly take myself off to one of the ‘breakout’ tables and plug in my headphones to drown out the noise. It’s somehow easier to concentrate listening to The Cure (Gen X cliché that I am) on full blast. I am in ‘the zone’ when my manager comes over to tell me off. ‘What are you doing over here?’ she asks. ‘We need you on the desk with everyone else.’ I try to explain that, after all this time WFH, I am struggling to concentrate but I realise it sounds a bit pathetic; my breakout broken.

When I add up my travel expenses for travelling into London at peak time (I have to be there at 9am, apparently) versus my day rate and then the hit of being taxed at source for all my contributions, I realise that I can earn more WFH.

I have enjoyed my brief RTO but have decided it’s not something I want to pursue.

A month or so in, I make my excuses and thank my manager, but tell her I’ll be WFH from now on. And that – by the way – she’s welcome to keep the mug.