Working from home means sitting, for eight hours a day, looking out of my living room window.
Yes, I should be looking at my computer screen for the duration of the working day, but with no tea break chat, half mile treks to the loos, or small talk by the printer, I need some light relief every now and then – some reset time. This reset time seems to, lately, consist of looking out of my window and analysing the street as if I was some sort of Sherlock.
My deductions are as follows:
The guy opposite, who cleans his already shiny convertible at least twice a day is, I deduce, a smug perfectionist. His selfies with his car are more frequent that him driving it, and I’m half tempted to throw some juice over the thing, simply to actually give him something to clean.
The man diagonal to my window is less busy, and is the street’s eyes and ears. He sits, topless, outside his front door, with a cigarette, watching the world go by. Every. Single. Day. In lockdown, there is not much world to go by — I would certainly get pretty bored if I were him. Even when the weather does not even warrant taking of one’s light jacket, this guy is out there, showing Islington his chest.
Then there is my mirror image: multiple times a day, I lock eyes with the man working from home at his window, in the flat directly opposite mine. I often forget he’s there, and halfway through my downward dog, or my Youtube fitness class suddenly feel very self-conscious. He seems to be a very hard worker, spending most of his day at his Macbook, at his window desk.
Or maybe he is just doing what I’m doing – analysing the neighbourhood under the guise of working from home.
As much as I enjoy being a window-watching Sherlock, I wish I didn’t have the opportunity to stare mindlessly out of my window for days on end.
When lockdown in over, I will relish office small talk, savour my toilet break walks, and be happy with the fact I know absolutely nothing about my neighbours.