I hate coming home

I like going to work. I don't mean the actual working, though actually I enjoy that too, but the actual going, the journey. At the moment one day a week I drop my daughter off at her childcare and drive about an hour to work. Sometimes I just enjoy the silence for a bit. Then I listen to the Today Programme. I hate the Today Programme with its in-jokes and smarter-than-you quips and up-its-own-arseness but oh the joy in listening to it uninterrupted.

I get to work in time to have a hot drink. Yes, a HOT hot drink, and a think and a read of the papers and time to plan my day and then I spend the day, you know, working, being intellectually challenged and busy and full of thought. It's all great.

But I hate coming home.

On the way to work I have a purpose - to get to work, and the luxury of time to myself. At work I am working, including through my lunch break to ensure I can leave immediately my teaching finishes so I can pick up my daughter. On the way home though the only purpose is to get home. Having not thought about anything but work all day, on the drive home I can only think about seeing my baby. It's a panicky feeling that every car I let go ahead of me and every mile under the speed limit and every red light makes worse.

It's glorious seeing my daughter at the end of the day, but truly, coming home, the journey, is awful.