After 24 hours in the cocoon I call the Marriott Maida Vale, I finally emerged a few minutes ago for fresh air, exercise and food. I've done far too much sitting around and staring at a computer. It's strange this is what I call work. This sitting, typing, talking, thinking, writing. That's the new reality on the edge of cyberspace.
It doesn't feel right to call it work sometimes. It doesn't burn enough calories. It doesn't get me dirty enough. A stain on a shirt every now and again when I spill something at lunch. What does it say that my clothes are so clean as to make a stain look out of place? If my hands are clean, if my palms are without callus, have I really created something of worth?
There is danger when we stop being part of the creative process. There is danger to the human spirit when we can't see the product of our own hands. When we become just one step in a process, just one role in a factory, we stop being fully human. We are complex creatures meant to solve complex tasks and understand complex problems. We are creative creatures. It's in our souls. It's part of our divine nature.
So, maybe I'm being a bit melodramatic. My job is complex. It does require creativity. There was a feeling of elation when the team I've been leading was able to finally launch the new Mothercare web site. Still, at the end of the day there was something missing. When I was looking at the new site homepage, the only thing different was the URL in the address bar. It was a virtual change. I couldn't see the physical change.
Somewhere, there are really "mums" and dads finding and buying the things they need for themselves or their children. There are real people pulling products off of shelves in a warehouse. There are real people driving lorries and carrying packages. There are real parents going into stores and ordering just the right Moses basket or pushchair. There are real babies in the cribs and real smiles on the faces of brothers, sisters and grandparents.
I just wish I could see it when I look at the screen. Alas...
I've now nestled down in a pizza restaurant called Le Cochonnet for two diet cokes and a Baghdad (pizza with aubergines, courgette, artichokes, roasted peppers and mozzarella). It's nearly nine o'clock at night. This place is packed. Contemporary art on the walls, loud conversation, the faintest trace of the Ghostbusters theme song coming over the speakers and Premier League football on the TV in the corner. Throw in the free wifi and stone baked pizza and I may just have found a new hangout when I'm in London.
It doesn't feel right to call it work sometimes. It doesn't burn enough calories. It doesn't get me dirty enough. A stain on a shirt every now and again when I spill something at lunch. What does it say that my clothes are so clean as to make a stain look out of place? If my hands are clean, if my palms are without callus, have I really created something of worth?
There is danger when we stop being part of the creative process. There is danger to the human spirit when we can't see the product of our own hands. When we become just one step in a process, just one role in a factory, we stop being fully human. We are complex creatures meant to solve complex tasks and understand complex problems. We are creative creatures. It's in our souls. It's part of our divine nature.
So, maybe I'm being a bit melodramatic. My job is complex. It does require creativity. There was a feeling of elation when the team I've been leading was able to finally launch the new Mothercare web site. Still, at the end of the day there was something missing. When I was looking at the new site homepage, the only thing different was the URL in the address bar. It was a virtual change. I couldn't see the physical change.
Somewhere, there are really "mums" and dads finding and buying the things they need for themselves or their children. There are real people pulling products off of shelves in a warehouse. There are real people driving lorries and carrying packages. There are real parents going into stores and ordering just the right Moses basket or pushchair. There are real babies in the cribs and real smiles on the faces of brothers, sisters and grandparents.
I just wish I could see it when I look at the screen. Alas...
I've now nestled down in a pizza restaurant called Le Cochonnet for two diet cokes and a Baghdad (pizza with aubergines, courgette, artichokes, roasted peppers and mozzarella). It's nearly nine o'clock at night. This place is packed. Contemporary art on the walls, loud conversation, the faintest trace of the Ghostbusters theme song coming over the speakers and Premier League football on the TV in the corner. Throw in the free wifi and stone baked pizza and I may just have found a new hangout when I'm in London.
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