The Zoom lecture by Dr. Sussman （Downward can be upward! A journey to personal fulfillment） was compulsory for all employees. It was two hours long and was mostly Dr. Sussman talking about her divorce and subsequent sexual awakening in a commune in Croydon. I have no idea what it was supposed to teach us, but at least because it was on Zoom, I managed to get some work done at the same time.
“I’m talking about the online aspirations mood board, Sasha,” says Joanne, folding her toned arms like a scary gym teacher who’s about to make you do twenty press-ups. （Is she about to make me do twenty press-ups?） “You haven’t logged in for ten days, we notice. Do you have no aspirations?”
Oh God. The online bloody aspirations mood board. I completely forgot about that.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll get to it.”
“Asher is a very caring head of department,” Joanne says, her eyes still narrowed. “He’s keen that each employee takes time to reflect on their goals and note their everyday joyful moments. Are you making notes of your everyday joyful moments?”
I’m dumbstruck. An everyday joyful moment? What would one of those look like?
“This is for your own empowerment, Sasha,” continues Joanne. “We at Zoose care about you.” She makes it sound like an accusation. “But you have to care about yourself too.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that six more urgent emails have arrived in my inbox while we’ve been talking. I feel nausea rising as I see all the red exclamation marks. How am I supposed to have time to reflect? How can I feel joyful when I’m constantly gripped by panic? How am I supposed to write down my aspirations when my only aspiration is stay on top of life and I’m failing at that?
“Actually, Joanne …” I take a deep breath. “What’s most bothering me is, when are Seamus and Chloe going to be replaced? I asked that on the aspirations board, but no one answered.”
This is the biggest issue. This is the killer. We just don’t have enough staff. Chloe was a maternity cover who lasted a week, and Seamus stayed for a month, had a flaming row with Asher, and walked out. As a result, everyone is overloaded, and there’s still no news on any replacements.
“Sasha,” says Joanne condescendingly, “I’m afraid you’ve rather misunderstood the function of the aspirations mood board. It isn’t about technical HR matters; it’s for personal goals and dreams.”
“Well, it’s my personal goal and dream to have enough colleagues to do the work!” I retort. “We’re all snowed under, and I’ve spoken to Asher so many times, but he just won’t give me a straight answer, you know what he’s—”
I cut myself off dead before I can say anything negative about Asher that she’ll report back to him and I’ll have to retract in a cringy meeting.
“Are you twitching?” says Joanne, peering at me.
“No. What? Twitching?” I put a hand to my face. “Maybe.”
She’s blanked my actual question, I notice. How is it some people can do that? I can’t help glancing at my monitor—and Rob Wilson has just emailed yet again, this time with four exclamation marks.
“Joanne, I have to get on,” I say in desperation. “But thanks for the empowerment. I feel so much more … powered.”
I need to do something, I think frantically, as she finally walks away and I resume typing. I need to do something. This job isn’t what it was supposed to be. Nothing like. I was so excited when I got it, two years ago. Director of special promotions at Zoose! I started off at a sprint, giving it my all, thinking I was on a solid path toward an exciting horizon. But the path isn’t solid anymore. It’s mud. Deep, gloopy mud.
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.