I’m worried. It may be coincidence but I’ve been nominated at work for a mindfulness course. Is it because there’s something in my behaviour or performance that’s worrying those few colleagues who know about Helen’s death? I’ve been back only a short time but I thought I’d made a good show of things – I say “show” as what lies beneath is definitely less commitment and respect for what-I-do’s importance. So I check out who else is going to the six workshops. Pleasingly, it’s a broad cross-section of colleagues, none of whom look like the collection of emotionally strung out, hollow-eyed hand-wringing lost souls that I’d feared I’d be matched with.
I ask fellow nominee Roger why he thinks he’s attending. His reply has the characteristic bluntness of bearded media youth, “God knows – I’ve got no time to waste on a load of bull, it’s probably to help them win a ‘great places to work’ nomination. I don’t need a mindfullofshit course now or ever. It’s not like anyone’s died or got cancer.”
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