We are not working from home, we are living at work 

Working from home certainly isn’t working out quite as I had envisaged.

In fact, I am starting to fear for my sanity and my life, as my wife is bound to either drive me crazy, or kill me.

With the advent of the lockdown, we decided to follow a set of rules. Simple things like getting dressed and not working in pjs, finishing work at 6pm, no working in bed or in the kitchen, no skivvying off to watch TV, and definitely no lunchtime braai.

That last rule was obviously one of hers.

As a rule, I rather like rules, as long as they are sensible and rational and contribute to order, rather than chaos. I also play by the obviously disqualifies me as a politician, but it does mean people usually know where they stand with me.

So, I don’t know why she is upset that I don’t take the dustbins out every Monday. She knows I go to work early on
Mondays and no amount of moaning outside my office door will change that.

And when I make myself coffee during my breaks, wouldn’t it be totally against the rules to make her some as well? After all, I am at work.

She went ballistic when I popped out to buy myself a salad for lunch last week, without asking her if she wanted anything. My interpretation of the rules is that I cannot under any circumstances go on a shopping spree for her during my lunch break.

Rules are rules.

Now she’s started cooking dinner for herself, but I said that’s unfair.

When we make dinner, we’re at home, not at work. And we specifically said we won’t be taking our work home, meaning that we won’t let our work issues interfere with our home life.

Things got particularly scary when I refused to let her use my office vacuum in the rest of the house.

I don’t know who slashed the cord, but I have my suspicions.

Turns out we didn’t start working from home. We started living at work.

Danie Toerien.

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