There’s a draft. A delicious, glorious draft caressing the various bits I’ve got on display (don’t worry, I’m in the office and in full possession of my faculties. I’m not flashing anything I shouldn’t be under the current rule of law. Basically, I’ve got my hair up so the breeze is landing on my neck in a surprisingly delightful fashion). On an admittedly sunny but overly hot day (in June! The scandal of summery weather in this grand old country of ours), this is nothing short of a blessing. I know, I probably couldn’t be any more middle class if I tried.
This is my roundabout way of ramping up to the revelation that my company has moved offices from the bright bustling lights of Henley-on-Thames (fine, if you Google it you’ll realise it’s far from a metropolis but whatever) to a more rural location. When these sorts of things go down, namely decisions made above your head that you have next to no chance of influencing, there are only so many options open to you. Sure, you could descend into a hissy fit that, while being cathartic, probably won’t do much to enhance your professional reputation. Aside from that you either find somewhere else to be or go with the flow.
Therefore, down little winding country lanes I go every morning (and back again in the evening, duh). I’ve finally learned the route to the point of being able to dispense with the satnav (I’ve only got catastrophically lost the once as of yet. I mean, those official looking signs saying unsuitable for motor vehicles are only advisory, right?). While there is a distinct lack of air conditioning (what could go wrong with that setup while we’re running a truckload of tech) I can at least bask (strictly only during breaks) in this lovely injection of countryside air.
Song choices courtesy of: Santino Fontana, Ramin Djiwadi and Tom Howe