A date with Sarah-Kate; Kate’s home truths

Self-starter Sarah-Kate makes a break for it

Woman’s Day (NZ) - - This week -

Iknow a lot of peo­ple dream of work­ing from home, but as some­one who has done so for many years, I of­ten dream of work­ing in an of­fice. There are a lot of rea­sons for this, one be­ing that I don’t get a Christ­mas party, and the other be­ing that there’s only me and the dog to do a Mel­bourne Cup sweep­stake. (On the plus side, I al­ways get first, sec­ond and third prizes as Ted is a ter­ri­ble picker.)

More of an is­sue is the guilt fac­tor. For the peo­ple who don’t suf­fer from it, I would rec­om­mend a home of­fice most en­thu­si­as­ti­cally. For the peo­ple who do – from the mo­ment you get up till the mo­ment you go to bed, you’re wracked with guilt if you’re not at your desk.

I made the stupid mis­take when we built our house 10 years ago of putting my of­fice in our bed­room. At the time, there was a very good rea­son for this, which I have now com­pletely for­got­ten.

It means that the first thing I see when I wake up, other than the Ginger, is my com­puter, star­ing blankly at me with its big, dumb, empty face re­mind­ing me of all the things I didn’t do the day be­fore.

For this rea­son, I’m quite of­ten at my desk within min­utes of wak­ing up and am some­times still there at lunchtime, in my py­ja­mas, with­out hav­ing cleaned my teeth. (Note to self: Next time you build house, put of­fice in bath­room.)

I mean, it’s very good for get­ting work done if all you care about is work, which I def­i­nitely do not. I love what I do, but I don’t want to be do­ing it from sunup till sun­down. Not for me the buzz of be­ing busy.

I think busy-ness is a sign you’re not walk­ing on the beach enough and watch­ing too lit­tle telly. But some­times when I go to the wardrobe to get my walk­ing clothes, there it is, that big old box of bolts, glar­ing out at me with its dead, black screen and be­fore I know it, I’m back at work.

Usu­ally, though, I’m clever enough to give it the slip, even if I have a del­uge of dead­lines, to walk the dog. Take that, Ap­ple Mac! But in the re­cent other del­uges, of ac­tual rain, this has been im­pos­si­ble.

At one stage, I did not leave the house for three days. I got up, I worked, I went to bed and I got up again. My step count one day was 137.

“It sounds like be­ing in prison,” my sis­ter said when I rang her for a moan.

“In prison, I’d have some­one to talk to and they’d bring me lunch,” I replied.

But then the sun came out. Sure, it was only for 45 min­utes, but I spent all of them walk­ing on the beach, and a few more be­ing hailed on and get­ting some free der­mabra­sion from the sand.

Still, just like that, my blues flew away, and sud­denly work­ing in my jam­mies with bed hair and bad breath seemed like the big­gest lux­ury a girl could af­ford.

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