I was sent to Brussels early in my ill-fated career as a City solicitor, to an office in a stunning Belle Époque building with a murky colonial past and beautiful stained-glass windows. It was thrillingly foreign, with office lunches that put Boots’ meal deals to shame and sparkling wine at the weekly “tea time”. I was delighted, but convinced it was a clerical error. Foreign postings were supposed to reward the best; I devoted most of my time and energy to evading work.
I was also irrationally terrified of the fabled “all-nighter”, a corporate law rite of passage. I think I believed that, gremlin-like, something terrible would happen if I was exposed to spreadsheets after midnight – I would reveal I didn’t actually understand them, perhaps. I had developed hacks to ensure this never happened: dodging notorious taskmasters, fibbing about my workload, and leaving my computer on when I went home.
