I am someone who likes to keep shoes under my desk, clothes that need dry-cleaning squished into my drawers and pictures and pages torn from books and magazines pushed into the dull felt-lining of my cubicle.

In other words, I move into my workspace. I really move in. The first time I had an office was in New York in my twenties, and I decorated it like an apartment. There was wallpaper (well, rolls of patterned wrapping paper from a nearby stationary store, that I painstakingly pinned into place) and fairy lights. And because said-office had several more cupboards than my teeny studio, I also stored a few heavy winter coats and several pairs of boots there too. 

Before you scoff (or applaud, depending on your own style), I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t even the most nesty person on the floor. Other co-workers had bought sofas, lamps, rugs and poufs for their offices. Suffice to say, when you spend more time with your colleagues than your loved ones, it’s nice to make things comfortable. 

Fast forward (ahem) quite a few years, and the truth is that many of us will never return to an office five days a week. For most, it will be two or three days. For some, never. And so work needing to be a kind of home-away-from-home matters less.

Of course, office design has never really revolved around comfort. In fact, what struck me about the environment when I returned after several months of remote working was that it seemed to be about creating discomfort. Or, a slightly less cynical assessment might be, to promote focus. Harsh lighting, arctic air-con and a palette of grey and beige. Prisons have more colour and greenery than most office spaces. 

Combine this clever design strategy with a clock-watching culture that makes the life-juggle feel like a tight-wire act for most women, and it’s no wonder people say they’d like to stay home for some if not all of their working week. 

Over the last two years, many corporates have had to hedge predictions about the ongoing trend for hybrid working and the massive cost of renting office space. As early as 2020, data began to emerge that major firms were anticipating a more flexible working arrangement would remain. Remote working was moving from a necessary evil to a perk-of-the-job, and so companies began to reduce floor space as desks remained empty. And many found themselves with more workers than desks. 

Switching to hot-desking for some workers—assigned spots for others—can be fraught. I recently watched a junior colleague, who had tastefully personalised her desk space months before when she started the role, leave the office close to tears after being told on a Friday afternoon to pack up her things as she would now be hot-desking. Without guidance on how to book into a desk, what days she should come in, and how to stay connected with the wider team, it felt more like a redundancy as she packed. 

The learning (at least from where I sat in my view from the middle): The comms around hot-desking need to be carefully considered before people start being handed boxes for their stuff. 

Firms that have embraced it—and found it to work well—have infrastructure in place. Hot desks mean reservations systems, managers that have already considered the meetings needed to keep employees—especially the younger ones—feeling connected and avoiding FOMO. It means ensuring your systems are up to scratch and people have the organisational skills necessary to not work with piles of crap on their desk. And messaging systems to replace the banter, where ideas get thrown around, problems solved and opportunities seized. It also means considering the idea of “neighbourhoods,” which is the idea that companies assign desks to groups rather than individuals, so that when you do come in, your team is nearby. 

My ideal situation would be in the office a day or two a week, with my very own bespoke place when I arrive. The reality is that office work has changed forever. And having a familiar nest at work is over. For me, the gains of flexible working are worth finding room for my shoes at home.