Workplace Pompeii

Yesterday I went further than I have in a single day for more than a week. For the first time in three months I visited my office, a journey of a little over 5km each way. Use of public transport is still discouraged where possible and so I walked. It’s a route I began taking regularly back in March when the rumours of the severity, and contagious nature of covid-19, started to crystallize in to something of greater substance, when social distancing was an independent decision rather than government mandated.

On my way from suburbs to centre I pass by some of the city’s famous sights. The first landmark is Easter Road football stadium, which I reach shortly after emerging from the greenery of the old railway path.  The motto of the club, and this part of town is ‘Persevere’ (read more about the significance of this mantra here). It is emblazoned on the stadium wall, the giant lettering loud in the empty street.

A little further, and over the brow of one of the city’s seven hills, is Holyrood Palace, the historic home of Scotland’s royalty; opposite, in stark contrast to the 16th century turrets and curlicues, is the opinion dividing modern architecture of the parliament buildings. Today the haar has descended, a cold, peculiarly Scottish mist, that rolls in from the sea after hot weather.  It hangs heavy over the water features and formal gardens, shrouding Arthur’s Seat, the slumbering volcano at the city’s heart, hiding its peak from view.

Another kilometre down and I am in the bowels of the Cowgate. Once this was the drovers’ path in to the city.  Now it is home to most of the big nightclubs, vaulted, subterranean spaces, built in to the very foundations of the bridges that soar, 40, maybe 50 metres above.  The urban canyon opens out in to the Grassmarket.  Usually a bustling tourist trap of overpriced pubs and tartan peddlers, it is eerily quiet. This is the first time I have been here since lockdown began.  Some of the shops and restaurants have chosen to board their windows. It seems an unnecessary precaution. There are no signs of vandalism.

At the far end of the Grassmarket, my office almost in sight, the unmistakable rock topping castle dominates the skyline. 13 years ago this month, I got married in its gatehouse.  My thoughts turn to friends and family whose weddings have been cancelled this year as a result of the virus.  2007 seems a very long time ago indeed.

And then I am here, at a place both alien and familiar, somewhere I have spent more time than anywhere else in the last decade.  The first change is the large perspex screen at the foyer reception.  The dry humour of the concierge is, however, the same. 

Inside the signs are immediate.  One person at a time in the lift.  It’s eight flights but I opt for the stairs. The signs continue.  Keep left.  Stay 2 metres apart.  Allow others to pass.  I am the only person here but I’m British.  I keep left.

I exit the stairwell at my floor, use the elbow operated hand sanitizer dispenser, take a deep breath, swipe my pass and open the door. I am greeted by a workplace Pompeii. Three months ago 300 people left this office in a hurry, 300 people assumed they’d hide at home for a few weeks and all this would pass. There are mugs and pens on the desks, jackets on the backs of chairs, formal shoes discarded haphazardly. It feels like the set of a disaster movie. It also feels like I’ve popped in at the weekend and everyone will be back on Monday.

I do what I came here for and then I leave. The walk home is slower. I’m carrying a rucksack and two bags of rescued possessions. A storm is threatening and as I get to the railway path the first drops begin to fall. I resist putting my coat on for as long as possible. I can’t remember the last time I was out in the rain.