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The email telling us to return to the office came last week, but I know when I step off the train that I can’t say goodbye to all that leisure time Two years spent lying in bed all morning with the laptop next to me, messages popping up to be ignored while I dozed, lunches of tender marinated meats and spiced pulses, films on the sofa in the afternoon, hours reading on the toilet, trips to the pub for solo pints, taking the laptop and jogging the mouse every 10 minutes to keep my status active You can’t go back from that, so I step off the train and sit down on the platform, right in the middle of the morning rush hour   With the crowd surging around me, I look up at the clock above the platform The orange numbers show 8:52, once the ideal time to be walking under the clock to get to the office for 9:00, back when I commuted down from zone 3 every day   I’d get anxious if I was late There would be headaches and unexplained rashes   Memories of covering myself in hydrocortisone in the toilets, chugging back beta blockers at my desk, all voided by two glorious years   The next train pulls in and disembarks I get knocked over and stood on a couple of times but mostly manage to stay upright Everyone ignores me except for one guy who calls me a cunt   I watch as he makes his way through the crowds towards the exit He doesn’t want to be going back to the office, but the self-coercion throbbing behind his eyes propels him forwards   None of them want to go back, no matter what they’ve told themselves They want to be getting up late, streaming a new series all day, learning Swedish from an app, taking naps, lying in the bath for three hours or drinking a coffee in some cafe that has a 48 rating on Google   The clock says 9:05 I’m late now, but I’m not going back I don’t have any special urge to get up and go anywhere else, so I