Granta 109: Work - it sent me thinking about what was work and what is work, at a time when I seriously question "my" daily work.
For a long time, "work" was just a word to describe an enchanted, far away place where mum and dad spent their days. Once or twice a year we had the privilege to go along - for a disguised Christmas party ("No, no, no! Christmas did not exist in the 80s. The communists replaced Father Christmas with Mister Big Freeze / Mos Gerila) or during school holidays, mostly so that mum or dad's work colleagues can take a break from work and comment on how tall we'd grown or some other silly twaddle often accompanied by a gift of candy. In turn, my parents woudld make the same type of comments about their colleague's off-springs.
My mother worked in an open plan office with huge architect's desks separating the space into tiny boxes. My father worked in a tiny box of his own at the edge of an open plan repair hall for 2-ton electricity generators.
My naive 6-year old self aspired to "go to work" just like mum and dad. Maybe even trail my children along occasionally to show them the wonders of a 60s
steel mill.
But my "work" took on a completely new meaning. I work from home - most of the time. I write and translate and spend hours on end explaining things to strangers. For my 6 year old daughter this must be anything but magic."Work" takes me away from her in a more direct way than it took my parents. They worked and came home - to me and my brother, leaving most of their work behind. I carry it along day and night - mostly on the phone. Physically here, mentally there.
Where is work? What is work?
and The Clothes On Their Backs: A Novel
have marked my week. Both have been quietly sitting in my library for ages, neglected and unread. Thanks to a rainy bank holiday week-end, I managed to read them both. I loved Linda Grant's story of a Hungarian family in UK, though maybe 10 years ago I would have voted Peter Carey, who runs wild with an Australian commune. 
