The Burnout(3)

I press SEND, breathe out, and rub my face. I need a coffee. I stand up, stretch my arms, and wander over to the window for a breather. The office is silent and intent; half of my team are working from home today. Lina’s in but she’s typing furiously at her nearby workstation, her headphones clamped over her ears and a murderous scowl on her face. No wonder Joanne left her well alone.

Do I leave? Change jobs? But, oh God, it takes so much energy to change jobs. You have to read recruitment ads and talk to headhunters and decide on a career strategy. You have to dig out your CV and remember what you’ve achieved and choose outfits for interviews, then somehow secretly fit the interviews into your working day. You have to sound sparkly and dynamic while a scary panel quizzes you. Smile brightly when they keep you waiting for forty minutes, while simultaneously stressing out about how behind you’re getting with your actual job.

And that’s just one job application. Then they turn you down and you have to start again. The prospect makes me want to curl up under the duvet. I can’t even seem to sort out my passport renewal right now. Let alone my life.

I lean against the glass, my gaze drifting downward. Our office is situated in a wide, functional street in north London, full of nasty 1980s office blocks and a disappointing shopping center and, totally randomly, a convent, right opposite. It’s a Victorian building and you wouldn’t know it’s a convent if it wasn’t for the nuns coming in and out. Modern nuns, who wear jeans with their veil and catch buses to God knows where. Homeless shelters probably, to do good work.

As I’m watching, a couple of nuns emerge, talking animatedly, and sit on the bench at the bus stop. I mean, look at them. They lead a completely different life to mine. Do nuns have emails? I bet they don’t. I bet they’re not even allowed to email. They don’t have to reply to 103 WhatsApps a night. They don’t have to apologize to angry people all day. They don’t have to fill in online aspirations mood boards. All their values are different.

Maybe I could lead a different life too. Get a different job, move flats, change everything up. It just requires impetus. I need impetus. A sign from the universe, maybe.

Sighing, I turn away and head to the coffee machine. Caffeine will have to get me through for now.


I walk out of the building at 6 P.M, breathing in the cold evening air in large gulps, as though I’ve been suffocating all day. Our company is located above a Pret A Manger, and I head there straightaway, as I do every night.

The thing about Pret A Manger is, you can buy all your meals there, not just lunch. This is allowed. And once you have that revelation, then life becomes manageable. Or at least more manageable.

I don’t know when cooking became so daunting. It kind of crept up on me. But now I just can’t face it. I cannot face buying some piece of … whatever … food, I guess, from the supermarket. And peeling it or whatever, cutting it up, getting out pans and looking for a recipe and then washing up afterward. Just the thought overwhelms me. How do people do that every night?

Whereas the falafel and halloumi wrap is a nice, warm, comforting supper, which goes well with a glass of wine, and then you just chuck the wrapper in the bin.

I collect my wrap, a choc bar, some kind of “healthy” drink in a can, and a bircher muesli—which is tomorrow’s breakfast—along with an apple. That’s my five a day. (OK, one a day, if you’re being pedantic.)

As I reach the till, I get out my credit card. And I’m expecting the usual silent electronic transaction, but when I touch my card on the reader, nothing happens. I look up and see the Pret guy smiling at me, his dark eyes warm and friendly.

“You buy the same thing every night,” he says. “Wrap, bircher muesli, apple, drink, choc bar. Same thing.”

“Yes,” I say, taken aback.

“Don’t you ever cook? Go to a restaurant?”

At once I stiffen. What is this, the food police?

“I usually have work to catch up on.” I smile tightly. “So.”

“I’m training to be a chef,” he replies easily. “I’m into food. Seems a shame to eat the same thing every day.”

“Well. It’s fine. I like it. Thanks.”

I glance meaningfully at the card reader, but he doesn’t seem in any hurry to process the transaction.

“You know what my perfect evening would be?” he says. “It would involve you, by the way.”

His voice is low and kind of seductive. His eyes haven’t left mine, this whole conversation. I blink back at him, disconcerted. What’s happening right now? Wait, is he hitting on me? Is he flirting with me?

Yes, he is. Shit!

OK. What do I do?

Do I want to flirt back? How do I flirt back? How does that go again? I try to reach inside myself for my flirting moves. For the light, fun version of Sasha Worth who would smile or say something witty. But I’ve lost it. I feel empty inside. I don’t have a line.

“We’d walk round Borough Market,” he continues, undaunted by my lack of response. “We’d buy vegetables, herbs, cheese. We’d go home, spend a few hours cooking, then eat a beautiful meal … and see where that took us. What do you think?”

His eyes are crinkling adorably. I know what he expects me to say. How do I tell him what I’m really thinking?

“Honestly?” I say, playing for time.