By a guy who remembers when “out of office” actually meant you were out of the office
There was a time—gather round, children—when work had the decency to end.
Properly end.
You’d arrive in the morning, do your job, perhaps argue mildly with a colleague about something trivial, drink tea that tasted faintly of cardboard, and then, at precisely the appointed hour, you would… leave.
And that was it.
No emails. No messages. No “just circling back.” No one, anywhere, could reach you unless they physically got into a car, drove to your house, and knocked on your door like a civilized human being with a purpose.
Work stayed at work. You stayed at home. The two did not mingle, flirt, or exchange late-night messages.
It was glorious.
This was the age before the internet turned every human being into a 24-hour customer service representative for their own life. Before mobile phones made you permanently available. Before email became the modern equivalent of a mosquito—small, persistent, and utterly relentless.
Back then, you had just the right amount of work. Enough to feel useful. Not enough to feel hunted.
You’d clock out, and suddenly the day belonged to you again. Not your boss. Not your inbox. You.
You could go home, open the garage, and tinker with something utterly pointless but deeply satisfying. A bit of wood. A strange contraption. Possibly something involving wires that would either change the world or mildly electrocute you.
In fact, that’s how half of modern civilization got started. Dudes in garages. Not in meetings. Not on Zoom calls. In garages. With tools. And time.
Time! Imagine that.
Time to sit with your kids. Time to walk the dog. Time to call your parents and have a proper chat that didn’t begin with, “Sorry, I’ve only got a minute.” Time to notice things—like the sky, or the way the evening light hits the garden, or the fact that your neighbor has once again parked like an idiot.
Life had color then. Texture. You weren’t constantly waiting for the next interruption, the next ping, the next demand for your attention like some overworked butler to a digital aristocracy.
And then…
Technology arrived.
Now, in theory, this was meant to make life easier. Faster. More efficient. We were told it would free us.
Instead, it did the exact opposite.
Now you wake up, and before your eyes have even properly focused, your phone is already screaming at you. Emails. Messages. Notifications. A small digital avalanche informing you that, overnight, while you were asleep—how dare you—work has continued without you and is now demanding immediate acknowledgment.
You haven’t even had breakfast.
By the time you’re brushing your teeth, you’ve answered three emails, declined two meetings, and accidentally agreed to something you don’t fully understand.
Then there are the calls. Calls before breakfast. Calls on the way to work. Calls while you’re at work about the work you’re already doing. Calls about calls.
It’s like being trapped in a never-ending conversation with someone who refuses to hang up.
And emails—oh, the emails.
Endless. Pointless. Multiplying like rabbits on a romantic holiday.
Half of them could have been a sentence. Most of them shouldn’t exist at all. And yet there they are, arriving at all hours, each one carrying the subtle implication that if you don’t respond immediately, civilization itself may collapse.
You are no longer working.
You are being worked.
Technology doesn’t save you time—it consumes it. It takes your day, chews it up, and hands it back as a series of tasks you didn’t ask for. You spend your life downloading instructions and uploading responses, like some sort of mildly depressed human server.
And when does it stop?
It doesn’t.
You finish work, but work doesn’t finish with you. It follows you home. Sits next to you on the sofa. Buzzes on the table while you’re trying to eat. Lights up in the middle of the night like a tiny, glowing accusation.
You are never off.
You are merely less on.
Which is why those earlier days—those pre-internet, pre-email, pre-everything days—feel almost mythical now. Like a lost civilization where people did their jobs and then, quite sensibly, stopped.
They built things. They fixed things. They talked. They lived.
They weren’t waiting for the next notification.
They weren’t measuring their worth by the speed of their reply.
They weren’t slowly being dissolved into a sea of digital obligations.
They were free.
Properly free.
And yes, of course, progress has brought us wonders. Convenience. Speed. The ability to send a message across the world in seconds.
But it has also brought us something else.
A world where your time is no longer yours.
And that, I’m afraid, is a rather poor trade.
Because somewhere, in a garage, in a quieter time, a man once picked up a tool, looked at the world, and thought, “I might build something today.”
Now, he’d check his email first.
And by the time he’s done, the day is gone.
Thanks for dropping by my little corner of the world. If the story gave you a chuckle or made you pause and think, a like would be mighty kind. And if you’re feeling adventurous, well, hitting that subscribe button is like pulling up a chair and staying a while—always room for one more.
I subscribe back, by the way. It’s my way of saying, “Welcome to the club—snacks are in the back, goodtimes up front!”
Your comments make me smile, sometimes laugh out loud, and every now and then, they nudge me to dig a little deeper, write a little better. So, stick around—who knows what we’ll stumble upon next!
If you’re feeling a little generous—like the world’s got just enough warmth left in it for a small kindness—wander on over to my Donate page. No pressure, just a gentle nudge from the universe, saying, “Hey… this might be worth it.”
A Kings 
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