By Tori Turner

Is it sheer coincidence that the start of Wimbledon has coincided with even more of my industry colleagues opting to “work from home”?

In happier times, there was simply too much work to do for this mass idling to have been tolerated. Twice this week, I have heard the televised “thwack” of tennis balls in the background when re-routed work calls have been answered on the mobiles of my contemporaries.

One guy admitted he was glued to centre court, rather than the planning report he was allegedly working on. “If I got a call from the client, I would have dived for the mute button before answering,” he joked. The joy of modern technology makes it possible to keep one eye on the Blackberry, and the other on Federer’s serve.

Now don’t get me wrong – I am in complete support of flexible working, and many women in my firm have been able to continue their careers and bring up a young family as a result of such arrangements. But what I am observing now is very different, and more worryingly, giving home working a bad name.

With no hope of a bonus, frozen pay and the lingering threat of redundancy, workplace morale is at rock bottom. So the feeling of legging one’s employer over by taking it easy at home is a fillip for the hard-done-by male ego (and it is notably the men who are taking the piss).

It is also a sign of superiority. Being deigned worthy of working from home every Friday is a considerable perk – to my mind, 100% of the pay for 80% of the work. Senior friends in the industry agree that many bosses are taking a softer line on home working, thinking it will keep aggrieved big hitters happy, and prevent dissent in the ranks.

But they reckon without the lower-ranking staff left behind in the office. We are the ones who have to deal with whatever crap hits the fan in the meantime, and due to Wimbledon-related absences, our workload is actually increasing.

I was heartened, however, when I phoned one City big cheese on his mobile last Friday morning. “I’m working from home today!” he bellowed down the hands free. In the background, I could hear one of his toddler twins screaming “DADDY!” Upon further probing, he admitted that his wife was so fed up of having him under her feet, she had sent him out to Waitrose with the children.

Now that’s what I call hard work.