For all you know

In my defense, I work from home some days. Most days.

Last night was our Christmas party, which meant me running the affair and hosting it, so not a few of our guests have spotted me looking towards nowhere, dazed, recollecting myself. But at least I get to wake up when I want to the next day and work through what else needs to be worked on, although, chances are, I'd be awake at six flat anyway because the sun won't let me sleep. Half past six at the latest. Just five and a half hours of sleep.

Still, it feels weird being the only guy in a sando, shorts and slippers in the elevator. Everybody else around you is getting ready to go to the office.

Sure, it's Friday. It means it could be more awkward. I could be wearing house clothes and be surrounded by people in corporate attire. But times are a-changing. For one, it is Friday, which means employees - Shalla included - get to dress down a bit. But you know they're going to work, because everybody's hair is wet, fresh off the shower, rushing internally to work. Perhaps they also lazed around a bit like I did.

Or, maybe you could be one of the many Chinese mainlanders who have moved here to work in our POGOs and take our apartments away solely by paying double for them. They always wear casual outfits to work, but you know they're going to work: they're all wearing their IDs, with the blue lanyards and no discernible indicator of the name of the company they work for.

But then, again, I work from home some - most - days. For all you know, I might be a really important person, someone who has complete control over my schedule. I can be going on meetings, but I can also be punching in things from the comfort of what passes as the dining room at the moment, fielding phone calls at the worst possible times, because when you work at home, your work is your life, or so they say. But that also means you can press pause on it to do other things, like house chores. Like today, for instance - today is laundry day.

My mother is right. I do enjoy the smell of clothes that have just been both rinsed, spun and dried. The warm feeling in your hands as you fold your clothes at the table, fleeting yet lingering. It tells you to keep going. You may have been at the laundry shop for two hours, but it'll all be worth it. At least until I finally get myself a washing machine, which means I'll be limited to spin drying, which means I'll have to hang my clothes somewhere to dry them. Up on the 23rd floor, there are no balconies, no policies, no options. It will not be as comforting when you fold them, and it will take much, much longer.

And your responses...

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