Hot-desking, the curse of our age, has come to my office. If my colleagues and I thought we had triumphed when we persuaded our boss Bella to let us continue to WFH for two days a week, we were wrong. Seeing the empty desks in the office, Bella also saw an opportunity to cut costs in this financially squeaky time. She’s rented out the room that I used to share with my colleagues George and Sarah to a team of pilates instructors.
The pilates gang introduced themselves towards the end of last week’s team meeting, turning my birthday cake to ashes in our mouths with their stretchy pilated perfection. Their names are Zsolt, Katerina and Thunderbird (I may have misheard that last one). George developed an instant crush on Zsolt, who is from Hungary, and suddenly found he needed to be in the office every day again.
This month, according to the viciously contested office timetable, George is meant to be WFH on a Wednesday. Thanks to Zsolt, George insisted he had to come in to send out some press samples, which meant that hot-desking last Wednesday was like playing musical chairs. Not least because since Bella sublet half the floor, there are literally not enough seats for all our bums if everyone on the Bella Vista Team comes in at once.
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