A DAD'S LIFE:Tasting normal life, from nine to five
‘NO, I can’t pick up from school that day. Can’t pick up all week. You know I can’t.” I’m explaining to the missus my absence from the school run rota for a couple of weeks. I’m pretty sure I have already explained this, but she uses my memory lapses against me at times.
“Why not? I have loads on this week,” she says.
“Because I have a job and need to be some place. Some place elsewhere.” I know I’ve been through this with her. I need to start carrying a video recorder. When I tell her things she doesn’t want to hear she glazes over and leaves the room. I think she goes and reboots and loses the data in the last file downloaded. That way she can claim things haven’t happened. I need video proof of my entire life.
“Well, can’t you be back in time for the pick-up? It would really help me out.”
“I’d love to, but I’m going to be on the road all day every day this week. Because of my job. Sorry.” I drag out the word “job” for emphasis, like I’m the first person in the world to have one.
I’m working this job. It requires me, unlike most freelance contracts I get, to leave the house. I have to go out and meet people, talk to them, make nice. It’s different to sitting in front of a computer all day engaging with the world through the miracles of Google and Stalkbook. The beauty of it is the contract lasts only six weeks, which means I don’t even have time to get properly sick of it. I go out in the world like it’s a new and fresh place every morning. There is a pain in my face a lot of the time. I realise it is from smiling.
Don’t get me wrong, working from home is great. The commute is manageable and the boss is approachable, because he’s me. My favourite brand of coffee sits on the shelf and we have a creative “space” to hand that I like to call my bed. Sounds idyllic, eh? It has its downsides. The money is rubbish. I am an occasional freelance book editor and Vietnamese children get paid more to make running shoes than editors do to make books.
Think about that as you pad around in your €200 footwear and gripe about the price of a read. But the money isn’t the worst thing. When you work from home, nobody believes you’re actually working. Ever.
That’s okay when you get calls at 10am on a Tuesday morning from a mate who wants you to join him for a round of golf or just come over and work through The Godfather trilogy. Then it’s good to be able to move fast. That’s what self-employment is for. Problems arise when you have one too many movie weekdays and suddenly everyone thinks you’re available all the time. And never for fun things. It’s always pick ups and drop offs and grocery shopping and don’t forget to get the dogs wormed on the way back from ballet class.
I forget all the time. The dogs have terrible worms.
The typical working day is nine to five. Not at home. School starts at nine so work starts when you can get back to the house – after you’ve emptied the dishwasher and scraped Weetabix off the table. By then you might as well make coffee, grab a Twix and have early elevenses. Maybe catch a classic Two And A Half Men on Dave. Charlie Sheen. Now there’s a guy who could do with a nine to five routine.
When the giggles subside it’s time to put the head down for a solid 90-minute burst. Well maybe 60, there’s no point in straining something. Around one, the missus, who works from home a lot of the time too, will attempt to bribe me. The bribe usually comes in the form of foodstuffs. She will have whipped up a marvellous lunch and coax me with it on one condition. That condition varies, but suffice it to say I will be collecting children from school and lurching around a supermarket later on.
A typical work at home day comes in at an average of three hours. Except when deadlines loom and you find yourself working every hour except the ones between nine and five. None of it makes sense, and the money’s still rubbish.
Having a “job”, no matter how short, reminds me of normal. I shave every morning and wear a shirt. Within six weeks no doubt I’ll be happy to do a pick-up again but for now nine to five servitude is bliss.