As I type this, I’m sat – that’s right, I got a seat! We’re not in East London anymore Toto! – on the train commuting into London, squished between a sleeping woman (sensible lady) and a woman reading on her Kindle. The three gents squashed opposite us are all also on their phones.
Despite this very real commute, the idea of going back to work still doesn’t feel real.
I left the house at 7:40am with Little Miss running out from the kitchen waving like a mad thing shouting”bye bye Mummy! Good day! Bye bye Mummy! I wuv oo! Bye bye bye bye!”
And yet still it doesn’t feel real.
Little Miss is still off nursery with croup. The OH is off work with her today, which was rather surreal leaving him behind in jeans and hoodie saying, “don’t forget that colours wash, please”. Ah, how the tables have turned…
And still it doesn’t feel real.
I’ve got my sandwich (packed for me by the OH), I’m in shoes that pinch, I’ve got a posh bag on my arm with no tiny books, no travelsized train or snack pots taking up space inside it. Just grown up stuff like headphones, lipstick and notepad (though couldn’t bring myself to leave the tissues at home – some habits die hard!).
And still it doesn’t feel like I’m actually going to work. Properly going to work. It feels like after today, maybe tomorrow I’ll be back to my usual Monday morning of hunting through job listings and calling round the recruiters…