Somebody at The Home Office

In the many and myriad TV offerings from the United States which tend to find their way to these shores, us Brits get a glimpse of the lifestyle and cultural influences of that fledgling and rather disparate nation. 

Some are strange to comprehend, very much mixed up in the loose association with something referred to as "The American Dream". 

In recent months we would not be blamed for assuming that characteristics of this are; 

a) that anyone can become President, 

b)there is a strong defence of the right to carry armaments (just in case lethal force is needed in an everyday domestic situation) and 

c) an overwhelming aspiration to being wealthy and obese. 

I am of course being a bit harsh and relying on stereotypes. 

One particular aspect of American life depicted by TV programmes is that of the Intervention. 

This is where family and friends take it upon themselves to confront one of their number in an attempt to steer them away from perceived self harm, destructive behaviour, unhealthy lifestyle practices and, this being a popular one, a feckless tendency not to be able to commit to anything. 

In my own life I have recently been the focus of an American style intervention. 

Before  you speculate on what grounds for drastic action may apply in my case  I should quickly clarify that the family conference arose on the matter of my work and how I do it. 

I have been self employed for the last 29 years in the property sector. Although I have a fully staffed and functioning office in an idyllic riverside location overlooking one of the UK's greatest architectural achievements my established mode of operation is to be out and about all daylight hours and then catch up with the paperwork in the evenings or from an early morning start. 

Balancing an often heavy workload and being very much a home-loving bod means that the best place for me to work, out of office hours, is from the dinner table amongst the welcome hubbub of the comings and goings of my family. 

I have always worked this way and my wife and three children have become accustomed to it. I accept that occupying half of the living space in the house is an imposition on normal family functions even when I sneak a few hours after everyone has gone to bed and before they are wake up. 

The inevitable baggage that accompanies paper-based work such as laptop, reference books, pro-formas and a pot of coffee does occupy a certain amount of space. A space on the table top was made for school text books when the children were doing their studying and a little bit of distraction in the form of questions and the muted sound from headphones I found welcome. 

When not being used the aforementioned items would be piled up on a nearby dining chair or on the sideboard not, in my understanding, causing anyone any inconvenience. 

Those warranting an intervention do not of course have any appreciation of what their actions and implications of their actions are doing by way of collateral damage to their nearest and dearest. There have been a few hints in the past. My pile of stuff would occasionally disappear from the table and chair and materialise in another part of the house. Although the dining table was, by default my office it was not exclusive and could be easily commandered for other activities such as Fuzzy Felt, Lego construction site and , oh yes, mealtimes. 

It took a move to a new house to give the family the idea of an intervention. By now two of the children were living away at college or for their first employment and so space was available for me to have a dedicated study/home office in a former  (temporarily as is turned out) bedroom. This was at the top of the house and to all intents well set up having a large work surface, good lighting and a cosy and warm environment. 

I occupied it happily adorning the walls with my framed cycling jerseys and bike memorabilia. It was, as they say, a man cave. 

However, something was not quite right. 

I had a feeling of being detached from the household. There was the sound of the television and that comforting hubbub of conversation from another place. I expressed genuine concerns, so as to thoroughly convince myself, that my habitual early morning working would disturb those sleeping in the now adjoining bedrooms. 

In what may have appeared like a covert operation I began to move my stuff back downstairs to the familiarity and ambience of the dining room. There was now an atmosphere of stand-off with the family, and I felt like an insurgent in a sovereign state. 

The full intervention was shortly to follow. 

The American version is a full-on affair but it is evident that us Brits can contribute an altogether more civilised approach. 

I am now the very happy occupant of a ground floor room at my house which my family have kitted out as a very pleasant work space. It has a fantastic eye level view into the public park across the road and I can, between concentrated work efforts of course, watch the world go by, man and dog included. 

Trouble is, my family now keep popping downstairs to find out why I am spending so much time in there.