“Working from home may be okay for the older generation, but for the Bridget Joneses of today it’s a sham and a snare—and they’ll never meet their Mr Darcy.” This was yet another misguided take from Boris Johnson in his Daily Mail column. For starters, Bridget met Mark Darcy at a turkey buffet at her parent’s house—far, far away from the office. In fact, the only office romance she did have was with Hugh Grant’s sleazy Daniel Cleaver, her womanising boss who sends her flirtatious emails regarding the length of her skirt. An HR nightmare.
The closest I’ve come to an “office romance” didn’t happen anywhere near a water cooler or a photocopier. It was at a weekend festival run by a former employer, back in 2022. I was ten days out of a relationship, heartbroken, and awaiting a job offer from a different company. While I worked hard on converting festivalgoers into paying subscribers during working hours, I wasn’t afraid to let loose in the evenings.
During my first day of distributing QR codes and chatting to people, I repeatedly caught the eye of an attractive man who was working the bar-tent opposite us. Emboldened by my newly single state (and safe in the knowledge that I’d soon be quitting this job), I decided to make a move once my shift was over. By “move”, I mean that I went to his (crowded) bar, situated myself nearby to maximise the chances of being served by him, and then—when he did get to me—gave him lots of eye contact and threw in some small talk for good measure.
Having found out his shift ended at midnight, I tactically returned to the bar at that time to get a fresh pint. We got chatting and, naturally, flirting. We both had shifts the following day, the whole festival was teeming with people from my office, and I knew hooking up with him would be a bad idea. But I was drunk, foolish and just a touch naïve, so I invited him to join me and my colleagues in one of the dance tents. I started introducing him to all of my co-workers as though he was a committed plus-one whom I was desperate for the people in my professional life to meet. Suffice to say, we received a lot of bemused looks.
It gets worse.
Introductions weren’t enough. After 10 to 15 minutes of awkwardly dancing together, we started making out. As I pulled away from the kiss, I caught our CEO’s eye. Good god. I swiftly exited the tent, my barman in tow.
I was sharing my yurt with our HR executive, so I thought it wise that we returned to his tent rather than mine. I won’t bore you all with the underwhelming and inevitably mediocre details of such a one-night stand, but the following morning involved a walk of shame so awful that even my toes curl at the thought of it. As I finally reached my own campsite, I had to shuffle past my co-workers standing sleepily in line for the shower, towels thrown over their shoulders and clutching plastic toiletry bags. I felt their gaze follow my display of dishevelment.
I’m sure, if I’d stuck around, this would have become a funny anecdote among my colleagues. But I also know that the ensuing judgement and gossip would have hindered my professional future there.
Whatever, I was only 22 at the time. But now, with my fully developed prefrontal cortex and the benefit of hindsight, I would avoid mixing business with pleasure so… overtly.
Rather than just being about home working, as Johnson suggests, I think the demise in the office romance points to a broader shift in our attitude towards work itself—those of us in gen Z aren’t as comfortable with blurred boundaries between our personal and professional lives as the generations before us. I for one want my life to revolve around work as little as possible, and getting intimate with a colleague would make clocking-off mentally more difficult. We are also the generation that entered the workforce post #MeToo, so we’re very aware of the potential abuses of power that can come with romance at work.
None of my friends who work in office environments have had a sexual relationship with a colleague, so perhaps gen Z has killed the office romance. But I’m not convinced that’s such a bad thing: the last thing I need in my life is a Daniel Cleaver.
As for my future Mr Darcy, I’ll see you at the turkey buffet…
