FIVE hundred and 12 days. That’s how long it had been since I’d worked in a real office; an office that wasn’t thrown together in my front room; an office that required a commute in real shoes, rather than a shuffle from the kitchen in baffies; a real office with real people in it – in person, not in Zoom boxes.
So it was with a happy heart that I ventured on to a train last week and made my way into Glasgow to National HQ.
Nevertheless, I admit I was nervous. After a fortnight’s holiday, it’s always a little discombobulating returning to work (what’s my password and how does this keyboard thing work?). Add in the Covid fear factor and those 512 days of remote working, and I was just a tad tense.
And there was another wee spanner to chuck into the mix. National HQ has been relocated to a brand-spanking-new office. This is my third in almost as many decades with these newspapers, so you’d think I’d be used to flitting. But it was all just a bit too exciting.
READ MORE: What happened when the Queen and Prince Philip visited my old office in 2001
But I was well prepared. I’d memorised my personal access code to gain entry to the building, a rather grand affair on Bath Street. What could go wrong?
Unfortunately, I’d failed to memorise the street number of our new premises. I almost got it right. Apologies to the office next door to which I attempted to break and enter. Fortunately, I was rescued by a colleague before the burglar alarm went off.
Once I eventually made it into the right building, how lovely it was to be among colleagues once more. I’ve always counted my blessings that I have been able to work from home during this pandemic, when so many others in society were furloughed, faced losing jobs or took personal risk working on the frontline.
But how good it was to be able to holler a quick question across the editorial floor, hear the hubbub of chat about storylines and feel the frisson of excitement over a nugget of breaking news.
It has to be said that our new home is a little more swanky than we’re used to, but I’m sure we’ll soon get used to lording it.
It’s a far cry from Albion Street, where I started out. I think gritty is the most apt word for which to describe those premises. It was such a thrill having the presses on site, feeling them rumble into action and being able to go down to the press hall and grab early copies as they printed. The smell of ink hung in the air, challenged only by the aroma of chip fat from the canteen, the tobacco smoke emanating from the smoking room and the whiff of booze from the Press Bar.
When we moved to new, purpose-built offices in Renfield Street it all felt so squeaky clean and sanitised. And now our presses were what seemed like hundreds of miles away at the new plant at Cambuslang. To say that the introduction of computer-to-plate technology was scary is a mild understatement. You pressed that button and who knew what was printing at the other end? But we soon adapted.
Twenty years on, it’s all change again. But in a good way. If the past 18 months has taught us anything it’s that it’s not the buildings that matter. It’s the people.
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