These days, I’m back in the office two days a week — soon to be three. But not long ago, I spent two full years working entirely from home. What started as a short break from the daily commute turned into one of the strangest and most transformative periods of my 25+ year career in banking.

Let’s rewind to early 2020. I work for a bank, in case that wasn’t already obvious from the tired eyes and the tendency to overanalyse interest rates at dinner parties. On Wednesday, 11th March 2020, I happened to be working from home — not because of COVID, but because our Glasgow office had outgrown itself. With a brand-new campus under construction, we were doing one day a week remotely to ease the overcrowding.

COVID was on the news, but it still felt like something happening somewhere else. Then, at precisely 5pm, the email came in: “Stay home for the next two weeks. Do not come to the office.”

Brilliant, I thought. A fortnight without commuting? No endless small talk near the lifts? It was practically a working holiday. The weather was unusually warm, and with nowhere to go and nothing to do, we fired up the BBQ and made the most of it. Two weeks of emails in the garden — how bad could it be?

Two Weeks Became Two Months, Then Two Years

The return date kept shifting. First it was April. Then summer. Eventually, they stopped pretending. “We’ll call you — don’t call us.”

Meanwhile, construction on our shiny new office campus ground to a halt. Global supply chains were in chaos, and no one could say when the project would resume. A few vague timelines came and went, and by October 2020, we were told not to expect to be back until September 2021. That slipped, naturally, and when we finally did make a tentative return in November, the Scottish Government strongly hinted we should all head home again by Christmas.

It wasn’t until March 2022 — a full two years after that original email — that we returned to the office on a more permanent basis. Just two days a week, mind you. Now, in 2025, we’re easing into a third.

The Good

Working from home changed things. For me, it meant more time. More time with family. More time for myself. The absence of a commute, the luxury of sleeping later, and the joy of having a proper lunch that didn’t cost £6.95 from a nearby chain café — all added up.

I noticed it on payday. After that first month, I couldn’t figure out why I had a few hundred pounds more than usual left over. Then it clicked: no Costa coffee every morning, no overpriced sandwiches, no sneaky snack runs to the on-site café. The quiet didn’t hurt either. With a job that requires focus, not being surrounded by noise, phone calls, and “got a sec?” interruptions made me more productive.

And then there was the great leveller: Teams. Suddenly, everyone was remote. No more being the lone dial-in voice on a call while the rest of the team sat together in a meeting room. Everyone was now just another little box on a screen.

The Bad

But like all honeymoons, the glow faded. What once felt like freedom started to feel like confinement. You’d roll out of bed, walk ten paces, and log in. Then at the end of the day… you were still at work. The line between home and job didn’t blur — it vanished.

The isolation crept in, slowly but surely. Even when restrictions eased, many of us weren’t rushing to go out again. Habits had changed. Social batteries had drained.

I was lucky — I had a garden. I could step outside, breathe some fresh air, and pretend I was somewhere else. But for friends and colleagues living in flats or sharing houses, working from home meant being stuck in a single room for months on end. It’s no wonder mental health took a hit.

The Criticism

There was plenty of criticism too. Accusations that people working from home were lazy, or out shopping, or bingeing Netflix between fake Teams statuses. And sure — for some, maybe. But let’s be honest: those people were just as unproductive in the office. They just had to look busier back then.

For most of us, the work still got done. Often more of it. I’d find myself logging in at 7am, barely stopping, and still working into the evening. Not because I had to, but because the boundaries had melted. Still, despite the long hours, I somehow had more time than I used to.

The Fear

At first, COVID felt like a bit of a wind-up. A lot of talk, a lot of panic, but nobody I knew had it. No one I knew was ill. It all felt… distant. Almost abstract.

That didn’t last.

One day, there were two hearses parked on my street. Two funerals, same day, both people lost to COVID. That was the moment it got very real.

Then I did what no anxious overthinker should ever do — I checked the statistics. Age? High risk. Weight? High risk. Fitness? Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly training for a triathlon. That was a wake-up call.

So, I changed. Over the course of two years working from home, I converted the garage into a gym, ditched a few bad habits, and took up running. I lost three stone, gained some actual muscle definition, and discovered I had shoulders again. I even ran a half marathon — officially clocked in at 1:57:12 — and I’m now signed up for the full Edinburgh Marathon in 2026.

That fear? It turned me into a gym-going, salad-eating, performance-tracking machine. Well… sort of. Let’s not get carried away. But I can now squeeze into a Superdry medium without looking like a distressed tent. Which is progress.

It’s funny — those mannequins in the shop windows always look sharp in their small/medium tops. Meanwhile, I used to resemble an overripe banana stuffed into an XXL. Now? Less banana, more… lean plantain, maybe.

Looking Back — And Ahead

It’s been over five years since that first stay-at-home message, and what a journey it’s been. I was one of the lucky ones. I kept my job, my salary stayed intact, and I was safe. I know others weren’t so fortunate, and their stories deserve to be heard just as much.

As I ease back into a three-day office routine, I actually think it’s a good balance. It’s not five days, and I’m thankful for that. Would I want to go back full time? Honestly, no. But if I had to, I would. Begrudgingly. With muttering.

If — or when — another pandemic hits (and let’s face it, history tends to repeat itself), I hope we’ll be better prepared. Systems are in place now. The infrastructure exists. But by then, fingers crossed, I’ll be retired and sitting in a shed somewhere pretending to fix things.