I don’t want to spend the next 10 years working from my bedroom

When I was in first year of college, I did something a bit odd. I wanted to know what it would be like to spend a week in a room with nothing but a bed, books, notepads and of course a toilet. Something in me craved solitude among my thoughts and expected to experience some sort of existential epiphany.

None of that happened. But I read some cool books, although I can’t remember what they were about. I figured my year as a fresher would be the last time in my life before I had actual responsibilities such as house-hunting a year in advance or watering my houseplant, Klara. Five days into the challenge, I exited my solitude having learned surprisingly little about myself. Curiosity quenched. No need to go through that again.

I’ll often learn more about my job in five minutes with a colleague in an office than during a whole week online

Fast forward to 2020 and we’re pelting eggs at the telly while we are told to stay at home for the bajillionth time. I guess it’s time to rewatch Friends for the third time and play with the filters on this newfangled thing called Zoom. The pandemic wasn’t some fun college experiment I could walk out of at any time.

Blink and it’s 2022 and we’re hailing this sedentary state as some work from home “revolution” or whatever. Of course we’re not trapped inside like before, but I can’t help feeling we’re not out and about in the way we used to be. The term “new normal” was thrown about with great disheartenment during the first few waves of the plague, referring to new habits to live alongside this virus until the end of time. But already many have forgotten Covid continues to kill 15,000 people around the world every week. Instead, we have normalised faux interactions on our screens as an adequate replacement for the real deal.

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As we await the impact of the Government’s Housing for Absolutely Everybody Today Very Soon Plan, it looks like I’m set to spend the next 10 years working from a small bedroom in a small apartment, surrounded by screens. New technology and a cultural shift has ushered in an era where you don’t have to endure long commutes or city congestion. A win for everybody, right?

But there’s a new generation entering the workforce post-pandemic who’ve never met most of their colleagues or held an office-wide grudge against the guy who microwaves the stinky fish pie every day.

There’s so much learned through osmosis in the office. That water cooler nonsense may have been agonising before, but I’ll often learn more about my job in five minutes with a colleague in an office than during a whole week online.

Recent graduates crave to socialise while the rest have had enough of all that. I mean, when you’ve done your time in the office over the years and prefer staying at home with your children and actual responsibilities, why would you return for that office guff? I’ll probably feel the same soon enough.

This informal stuff, however, is the butter holding the sandwich together. Without it, work is dry, flavourless and no craic. Sure there are upsides to WFH: more inclusion for people with disabilities, Klara gets a good watering more often, and the hastening of the inevitable death of the patriarchy. But not everyone is lucky enough to be able to stay at home and attend meetings in pyjamas from the waist down.

There’s something about this whole “revolution” that stinks of middle-class privilege. The most popular job in Ireland? Retail. Where’s the revolution there? So far it’s just click, collect and more alienating self-checkouts.

Second most popular? Farming. Manic video calls with cattle come to mind.

I’m not convinced we’ve seen the full impact of this supposed transition yet. I’m part of a new generation entering the workforce with something missing.

The future looks bleak for Generation Rent: the middle classes have sprawled across the country and Dublin’s suburbs have reached Donegal because we’re only capable of building semi-ds. People are renting into their 80s still saving for a deposit they’ll never have for a house they’ll never get. Generation Rent becomes Generation Spent. One of the Civil War parties — who cares which one — has announced its 25th housing plan promising to liberate us from our chains.

And we’ll sit inside, phones in hand, wondering what it was like in the Before Times when we recognised each other on the street and not just by our profile pictures.