Seven Minutes
My day is decided in seven minutes. Thatâs how long it takes me to walk to work (lucky, I know).
Seven minutes shouldnât matter. But they do. They decide whether I arrive motivated or flat, connected or invisible. Whether work feels purposeful, or like Iâve simply clocked into existence. Even in a job I love, days have a way of blending together. I cross the road into NOMA and Iâm usually met by someone from PLANT. A âmorning.â A comment on the weather. It usually ends with me wishing them luck surviving yet another Manchester rainy day. Coffee is next. Before I reach PULP, Iâm intercepted by NOMAâs estate manager on his third round of the morning. Big smiles. Thereâs usually a joke. Mr Pulp spots me in the mirrored chrome of his coffee machine before I even speak. âOat latte?â Of course! We trade weekend stories, and I attempt to help with one of his many crossword puzzles. Iâm never much help, but he always lets me try. Sometimes I even leave with a day-old pastry. Small victories.
Onwards to the office. Hellos to the New Century team filtering in for the day. A wave across the road to the groundskeeper wrestling with the morning bins. I reach my desk, opposite a wide-open window, and thatâs when the fluorescent yellow beanie appears. NOMAâs unofficial double act. Engineering and grounds. Always together. Always moving. They communicate through exaggerated waves, hand gestures, and improvised sign language and on the odd occasion, interpretive dance moves appear. None of us knows exactly whatâs being said. We persist anyway. Until the message – hello, seen you, how are you – lands. Big waves. Silly faces. Every time they pass the window, all day long. I laugh every time. Then the work begins. But it feels lighter. More purposeful. Because I didnât start my day disappearing into headphones or a screen. I started it in the present, in the now, with weather chats, crossword clues, coffees, window waves, and the quiet reassurance that I exist here, now, among other people.
