I never bring work home with me. I believe very firmly in the division between work and home. Work is for the office, and not for home. Home is for doing homely things, and not for work. Keep the two separate, I say, and then one never encroaches on the other.
I never offer to take work home with me. Not even one bit of work home, it'd be the thin end of the wedge. My home time is my own, and I don't want people thinking they can encroach on it. I have no intention of logging into my work email account in the evening, or whipping off a quick report over the weekend. Once I'm out of the office, I am not available.
If any work needs doing urgently, it can wait. There's always tomorrow morning, and tomorrow morning will be good enough. If deadlines get really close I can always stay at work late and catch up there. I'd rather work longer in the appropriate environment than drag a file of documents home and work on them here. Work/life balance, that's the key.
I appear to have brought some work home with me. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but it's happened all the same. I've had one of those weeks, and yesterday was one of those days, and not everything got done. Some bits were left over, and those bits really need to be done for Monday, and I appear to have brought some of those bits home. Damn.
I've only gone and brought some work home with me. I could have stayed in the office until stupid o'clock and got it finished, but I decided against it. Nobody works late on a Friday night, not if they can help it, not when there's a weekend kicking off. Exiting the office before the cleaners arrive is the only socially acceptable option.
I thought it'd be a good idea to bring some work home with me. I only thought it for a brief moment as I was exiting the office. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was knowing that Monday will be so much easier if I get the work done beforehand. All I know is it seemed a good idea at the time. I'm not so sure it was a good idea now.
I really have brought some work home with me. It's lurking over there in that bag, sealed away, out of sight. I haven't opened it yet. To be honest, I don't really want to open it at all. I know that the minute I open the bag and see what's inside I'll feel a guilty urge to do something about it. Probably best I keep it shut then, leave Saturday as a day of proper rest, and think again on Sunday.
I know I shouldn't have brought any work home with me. It'll just sit there, looming large over my weekend, and make me feel restless and uncomfortable for 48 hours. And I bet I'll get to nine o'clock tomorrow evening and decide that, you know, it's a bit late, and maybe I won't, and where's the harm in leaving it? Deep down, I already know I'm not going to touch it.
I don't believe in working from home. Work is for the office, and home is for doing homely things. That's what I think today, anyway. On Monday morning, once I'm back at work and various deadlines loom large, I may deeply regret that decision. But for now I'm simply ashamed for bringing the work home in the first place. It'll never happen again, I promise.