The one thing about working from home is that the trolley doesn’t come round. If I want a bun, cup of tea or a Wagon Wheel I’m going to have to get up and get it myself.
I worked in an office once where the keeper of the trolley would announce, around 11.00 each morning, ‘Trolley!’ in a voice like someone demanding a light be put out during the Blitz.
In the days before the confusion of which type of continental coffee you wanted and the shops supplying them not existing, trolleys would be rolled round offices. They were like the school tuck shop, only on wheels and pushed by woman seemingly over 100 with a fag hanging out of her mouth, adding an unnecessary layer to her doughnuts.
It was also a welcome break in the day; fag breaks were a thing of the future working in ‘60s and ‘70s. Plus, if I’d got on the smoking carriage of the Tube from Balham Station, I really didn’t need a fag break.
The tea-lady was scary and/or predatory. Did I want to sample her iced buns when I finished work? Probably not, and always had a note from my mum excusing me of such liaisons dangereuses.
So, work for me, around 11.00 in the morning became like school PE lessons: full of dread and the fear my pants would fall down while doing a handstand, thus risking getting third-degree burns off a giant tea urn.