This is the second of my Ibiza columns for The Guardian newspaper. Its title has changed from the misleading 'Homeworker' to 'A Desk in the Sun' which sums up the column much better. Unlike the first column which was cut from 700 words to 500 words, this one appears pretty much untouched.
You can read it on the Guardian website by clicking here.
How to be in two places at the same time
Last year I had a cunning communications plan which I hoped would make it look as if I was in Britain while I was really in Ibiza. It was simple. I'd leave a phone line in Edinburgh on permanent divert to my home in the sun. After all, few people actually saw me in the course of work. I was just a disembodied voice on the phone, or words in an email.
Despite my already virtual work existence I was concerned that moving a few thousand miles away would be a psychological barrier for the people who pay for my services. Setting up a diversion wouldn't be expensive, just line rental and, at most, 4p a minute for calls transferred to Spain. Using a cheap "carrier pre select" (CPS) service meant I wouldn't even have to pay BT's international rates.
Of course, nothing's simple. For a start, BT's diversions have to be set up from the home phone, but I didn't know what my Spanish number was going to be. And, by the time I had a line set up, my Edinburgh flat was being let out in order to pay the rent in Ibiza.
Then, once the diversion was apparently working properly, I couldn't understand why the phone would ring once and stop. It turned out business contacts were fooled by the Spanish ring tone's similarity to the British engaged tone. When I did manage to grab the phone before the caller hung up, there would be complaints about a disconcerting echo on the line. I quickly gave up pretending to be in the UK, but, much to my surprise, being by the Mediterranean often worked in my favour. I was living the dream of many of my business contacts and they seemed to enjoy having somebody to moan to about the weather. Suddenly I also went from being a techie hack to being somebody vaguely exotic.
My new location was even partly responsible for getting me one job, as web editor for the August Club, an online organisation for retired and soon-to-retire professionals. There I was, a practical demonstration of how you can earn a living in the sun as a consultant, without even the cushion of the pension enjoyed by most of the club's members.
But actually, even within the space of a few months, technology has advanced to the point where nobody needs to know where in the world I am when they phone me. That's the wonder of internet telephony.
I've been a Skype enthusiast almost since it launched, a whole two years ago. Computer to computer calls over broadband are generally of a much higher quality than ordinary phone calls. They're also free. That makes Skype great for keeping in touch and the August Club runs on its conference-call facility. But, even though you can now make and receive Skype calls to or from a landline, you still have to keep a computer switched on. And a headset remains the best way to use Skype.
Now, I don't mind that call centre look. But really what I want is a substitute phone service and Vonage is the best I've found so far. It comes with a box which hooks up to your broadband router, then you plug in an ordinary phone. That's it. Because I bought it in Britain it behaves as if that's where I am. I have an Edinburgh number and a subscription which allows me to make unlimited calls to UK landlines for less than £10 a month.
To all intents and purposes I have now created a situation where I live in Ibiza and work in Scotland. Yesterday I interviewed two venture capitalists, one apparently in Edinburgh, the other in Aberdeen. In fact they were both in London. It was only after the inevitable ice-breaking conversation about the weather that we all admitted that phone diversions meant we weren't where we seemed to be. The difference was they were in city offices with the prospect of either an impersonal hotel room or hours of trains, planes and automobiles. I was already where I wanted to be.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
The first of my monthly Guardian columns
Here's the uncut version of my introductory column about living in Ibiza while working in the UK. In order to make an advertisement fit, it was cut from 700 words to 500 words. This often happens in newspapers and I've butchered many a journalist's copy, but it's still frustrating.
Actually I was more fed up at the headline: 'Wherever I lay my Mac, that's my home'. I'm strictly PC these days having used Apple Macs when I worked in an office.
You can read edited article as it appeared in The Guardian if you click here. Or you can read it in full below...
Many people who’ve worked from home will recognise the picture. And it isn’t pretty. I’m sitting in front of my computer in my dressing gown, unshaven. The clock shows it’s 4pm, but doesn’t reveal that I haven’t set foot outside for three days. That’s because I had no need to venture onto Edinburgh’s cold, wet November streets. My work, and most of my life, was reduced to a screen, 19 inches corner to corner, and a telephone.
It was actually a couple of days later in the chilly sunshine that something clicked. I really didn’t need to be here. If most of the human contact necessary to earn a living could be made via phone and internet, I could be anywhere.
So I started to formulate a plan. There was nothing to stop my wife Barbara and I taking off to Ibiza for a year, celebrating my 50th birthday along the way. We had a small inheritance after my father died which, as long as I continued to earn something, would tide us over. We could put most of our belongings into my “home-office” and let our flat out as a two-bedroom which would, hopefully, cover most of the rent for a place in the sun.
Barbara wasn’t totally convinced. But I persuaded her Ibiza’s climate would be good for her rheumatoid arthritis and enable her to sell the jewellery she makes. So we wiled away the winter hours looking on the internet for somewhere to rent. Eventually it became clear we weren’t going to find anything and I’d have to spend a few days actually on the island. That’s when the first flaws in my plan became apparent.
Property seemed to be divided into two types. There were places which looked idyllic in summer when indoors was just for sleeping. In the spring drizzle, however, they felt barren and isolated. Alternatively there were apartments built for locals with tiny balconies barely large enough for a coffee table and two chairs. Watching sunshine through the window wasn’t the dream.
After four hectic days I found the ideal spot. It was modern and owned by a British architect and his wife. Okay, his work designing car showrooms did show a little in the décor, but it was a spacious compromise between local and holidaymaker’s tastes. It also managed to be quiet despite being two minutes from the beach and ten minutes from the island’s capital Ibiza Town. Getting a phone line and ADSL was also supposed to be easy, but that’s another story.
Feeling extremely pleased with myself I headed back to Edinburgh. The 25 hours it took gave me ample opportunity to think about whether it was really such a good idea to try and work from a small island with no direct flights outside Spain throughout the winter.
But, over a year later we’re still here. It’s four in the afternoon, I’m still unshaven, but it’s too warm for me to wear my dressing gown. As much by accident as by design I’ve ended up as a global telecommuter earning my income in the UK, but living by the Mediterranean. I edit the August Club’s website which is aimed at people retiring from business and the professions, write regularly for a number of publications and act as a confidential consultant on website content for several large private and public-sector organisations.
It’s all work that can be done anywhere there’s access to an internet connection. Even in the year I’ve been away, advances in technology, particularly internet telephony, keep making it easier to enjoy this way of working. I’m certainly not alone.
That doesn’t make it straightforward. Dealing in a foreign language with tax, bureaucracies which appear unreconstructed since Franco’s day and a postal service that doesn’t recognise your existence can reduce you almost to tears.
But I’ve learned a lot about working abroad in the UK over the last year or so. I’m sure now Ibiza is not the rational choice, but if you can make it here you can make it anywhere. Hopefully, over the coming months through this column I’ll show you how.
Actually I was more fed up at the headline: 'Wherever I lay my Mac, that's my home'. I'm strictly PC these days having used Apple Macs when I worked in an office.
You can read edited article as it appeared in The Guardian if you click here. Or you can read it in full below...
Many people who’ve worked from home will recognise the picture. And it isn’t pretty. I’m sitting in front of my computer in my dressing gown, unshaven. The clock shows it’s 4pm, but doesn’t reveal that I haven’t set foot outside for three days. That’s because I had no need to venture onto Edinburgh’s cold, wet November streets. My work, and most of my life, was reduced to a screen, 19 inches corner to corner, and a telephone.
It was actually a couple of days later in the chilly sunshine that something clicked. I really didn’t need to be here. If most of the human contact necessary to earn a living could be made via phone and internet, I could be anywhere.
So I started to formulate a plan. There was nothing to stop my wife Barbara and I taking off to Ibiza for a year, celebrating my 50th birthday along the way. We had a small inheritance after my father died which, as long as I continued to earn something, would tide us over. We could put most of our belongings into my “home-office” and let our flat out as a two-bedroom which would, hopefully, cover most of the rent for a place in the sun.
Barbara wasn’t totally convinced. But I persuaded her Ibiza’s climate would be good for her rheumatoid arthritis and enable her to sell the jewellery she makes. So we wiled away the winter hours looking on the internet for somewhere to rent. Eventually it became clear we weren’t going to find anything and I’d have to spend a few days actually on the island. That’s when the first flaws in my plan became apparent.
Property seemed to be divided into two types. There were places which looked idyllic in summer when indoors was just for sleeping. In the spring drizzle, however, they felt barren and isolated. Alternatively there were apartments built for locals with tiny balconies barely large enough for a coffee table and two chairs. Watching sunshine through the window wasn’t the dream.
After four hectic days I found the ideal spot. It was modern and owned by a British architect and his wife. Okay, his work designing car showrooms did show a little in the décor, but it was a spacious compromise between local and holidaymaker’s tastes. It also managed to be quiet despite being two minutes from the beach and ten minutes from the island’s capital Ibiza Town. Getting a phone line and ADSL was also supposed to be easy, but that’s another story.
Feeling extremely pleased with myself I headed back to Edinburgh. The 25 hours it took gave me ample opportunity to think about whether it was really such a good idea to try and work from a small island with no direct flights outside Spain throughout the winter.
But, over a year later we’re still here. It’s four in the afternoon, I’m still unshaven, but it’s too warm for me to wear my dressing gown. As much by accident as by design I’ve ended up as a global telecommuter earning my income in the UK, but living by the Mediterranean. I edit the August Club’s website which is aimed at people retiring from business and the professions, write regularly for a number of publications and act as a confidential consultant on website content for several large private and public-sector organisations.
It’s all work that can be done anywhere there’s access to an internet connection. Even in the year I’ve been away, advances in technology, particularly internet telephony, keep making it easier to enjoy this way of working. I’m certainly not alone.
That doesn’t make it straightforward. Dealing in a foreign language with tax, bureaucracies which appear unreconstructed since Franco’s day and a postal service that doesn’t recognise your existence can reduce you almost to tears.
But I’ve learned a lot about working abroad in the UK over the last year or so. I’m sure now Ibiza is not the rational choice, but if you can make it here you can make it anywhere. Hopefully, over the coming months through this column I’ll show you how.
- Nick Clayton is a freelance writer, editor of the August Club website and a web content consultant.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Real price of a cheap flight
One of the main topics of conversation amongst Brits in Ibiza is the price of flights. With so many budget airlines landing here over the summer finding out which one has the best deals can mean many frustrating hours on the internet, although there are some useful tools such as Skyscanner which searches across multiple airlines.
It’s easier for Londoners than the rest. For them, there’s direct flights into Luton, Stansted or Gatwick. And even if they land at 4am, there’s always a taxi into to town. For the rest of us, even landing in the early evening on British soil can make a cheap flight very expensive. Somehow you have to make a connection and if you miss the last onward flight, train, bus or whatever you’re stuck. A night in most airport hotels costs more than the flight.
Now, you might think from looking in travel agents windows that there would be regular cheap flights to Ibiza from Edinburgh or Glasgow. And you’d be right. Sadly for me, you can’t get the same bargains flying from Spain to Scotland. Sometimes, however, if you know you’re making several trips over the summer you can book that cheap return originating from the UK. So this summer Barbara and I flew to Doncaster, stayed in Edinburgh for three weeks, got a cheap return for two weeks from Glasgow and finally flew back to Ibiza from Doncaster. The total cost for four flights was less than £200.
But, sometimes those cheap summer flights provide more than a bargain. That was certainly the case when we flew back from Glasgow. The reason the ticket was cheap, incidentally, was because it straddled the end of the Scottish school holidays. It’s always worth checking term times to find bargains if you’re not too far from the border.
Anyway, the trip started badly. At check-in we were told there was a delay of probably two hours. But, tt least that made the game of guessing who would be on the same plane a bit easier. There weren’t any more flights that evening. Glasgow Airport was staying open just for us, at least WH Smith and a bar was. Actually, it didn’t seem too bad, even the drinkers watching Rangers playing a minor Cypriot team, and winning, seemed fairly subdued. It wasn’t until we made our way down to the departure lounge that it became clear that relieving the tedious journey with sleep was not going to be possible.
Several groups of shaven-headed lads were obviously enjoying themselves, to put it politely. As we got on the plane one group in front of us was being moved, none too politely, by a stony-faced stewardess. They were sent to the back of the plane while she confiscated their bottle of duty-free vodka. Unfortunately, although they had only got their seats wrong by one row, so they were soon back.
Meanwhile, an even rowdier group had got on. The one who couldn’t be right by his pals sat next to me. “Aw, nae luck big man,” he said. “You’ve got me for the whole flight.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it as he looked me up and down. “Hey, it’s Jerry Sadowitz,” he shouted to his pals. I’ve never been mistaken for a foul-mouthed, Jewish-Glasgow comedian before. It could have been worse. Looking at their football shirts, at least they didn’t think I was a Catholic.
Having got a laugh out of the Sadowitz comparison he then continued to repeat it for most of the trip, though fortunately a space had opened up next to his pals giving me some breathing space. That didn’t stop them offering me a swig of their Buckfast. I had a strange feeling of being back at school. Every time one of the cabin crew passed there was a clink of bottles, but I certainly wasn’t going to point the finger at who was to blame.
Also, their high spirits weren’t malicious. They were just having fun. Although, part way through the flight, it did look as if fists were about to fly. The middle-aged man who had complained originally about the two lads with the contraband vodka who were sitting in his seat suddenly turned round. “I’ve warned you three times about your language. There are children here,” he shouted.
I didn’t feel too much sympathy. The “children” were teenage boys who, I’m sure, would have heard their share of bad language at school, which was presumably where they should have been, rather than on a late-night flight to Ibiza.
Earlier in the flight I’d talked to the young woman in front. She was travelling alone, but had obviously consumed enough alcohol to join in with the lad’s banter. I’ll admit to being a little surprised when she explained she was an engineering graduate. It’s not a discipline that attracts too many females and, my prejudice shows again, she was quite attractive. Unless engineering students have changed dramatically since my day, I’ll bet she featured in more than a few of her classmate’s dreams. However, she said she now hated engineering and was completing a second degree in marketing. “With that combination I should be minted,” she said. I couldn’t argue with that.
But she also brought out my usually well-hidden puritan instincts. For much of our conversation she was massaging the upper thigh of the guy sitting next to her. No doubt his Rangers top made him irresistible, but they had only known each other for a maximum of ten minutes. It was, anyway, a short relationship as she left him for his pal and they spent most of the flight chewing each others’ faces, pausing only for the occasional swig of Buckie.
My contribution to the conversation had, anyway, come to an end. It is on occasions like these that portable music players really come into their own. With a pair of earphones and the volume turned up, you can be in a world of your own.
It’s easier for Londoners than the rest. For them, there’s direct flights into Luton, Stansted or Gatwick. And even if they land at 4am, there’s always a taxi into to town. For the rest of us, even landing in the early evening on British soil can make a cheap flight very expensive. Somehow you have to make a connection and if you miss the last onward flight, train, bus or whatever you’re stuck. A night in most airport hotels costs more than the flight.
Now, you might think from looking in travel agents windows that there would be regular cheap flights to Ibiza from Edinburgh or Glasgow. And you’d be right. Sadly for me, you can’t get the same bargains flying from Spain to Scotland. Sometimes, however, if you know you’re making several trips over the summer you can book that cheap return originating from the UK. So this summer Barbara and I flew to Doncaster, stayed in Edinburgh for three weeks, got a cheap return for two weeks from Glasgow and finally flew back to Ibiza from Doncaster. The total cost for four flights was less than £200.
But, sometimes those cheap summer flights provide more than a bargain. That was certainly the case when we flew back from Glasgow. The reason the ticket was cheap, incidentally, was because it straddled the end of the Scottish school holidays. It’s always worth checking term times to find bargains if you’re not too far from the border.
Anyway, the trip started badly. At check-in we were told there was a delay of probably two hours. But, tt least that made the game of guessing who would be on the same plane a bit easier. There weren’t any more flights that evening. Glasgow Airport was staying open just for us, at least WH Smith and a bar was. Actually, it didn’t seem too bad, even the drinkers watching Rangers playing a minor Cypriot team, and winning, seemed fairly subdued. It wasn’t until we made our way down to the departure lounge that it became clear that relieving the tedious journey with sleep was not going to be possible.
Several groups of shaven-headed lads were obviously enjoying themselves, to put it politely. As we got on the plane one group in front of us was being moved, none too politely, by a stony-faced stewardess. They were sent to the back of the plane while she confiscated their bottle of duty-free vodka. Unfortunately, although they had only got their seats wrong by one row, so they were soon back.
Meanwhile, an even rowdier group had got on. The one who couldn’t be right by his pals sat next to me. “Aw, nae luck big man,” he said. “You’ve got me for the whole flight.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it as he looked me up and down. “Hey, it’s Jerry Sadowitz,” he shouted to his pals. I’ve never been mistaken for a foul-mouthed, Jewish-Glasgow comedian before. It could have been worse. Looking at their football shirts, at least they didn’t think I was a Catholic.
Having got a laugh out of the Sadowitz comparison he then continued to repeat it for most of the trip, though fortunately a space had opened up next to his pals giving me some breathing space. That didn’t stop them offering me a swig of their Buckfast. I had a strange feeling of being back at school. Every time one of the cabin crew passed there was a clink of bottles, but I certainly wasn’t going to point the finger at who was to blame.
Also, their high spirits weren’t malicious. They were just having fun. Although, part way through the flight, it did look as if fists were about to fly. The middle-aged man who had complained originally about the two lads with the contraband vodka who were sitting in his seat suddenly turned round. “I’ve warned you three times about your language. There are children here,” he shouted.
I didn’t feel too much sympathy. The “children” were teenage boys who, I’m sure, would have heard their share of bad language at school, which was presumably where they should have been, rather than on a late-night flight to Ibiza.
Earlier in the flight I’d talked to the young woman in front. She was travelling alone, but had obviously consumed enough alcohol to join in with the lad’s banter. I’ll admit to being a little surprised when she explained she was an engineering graduate. It’s not a discipline that attracts too many females and, my prejudice shows again, she was quite attractive. Unless engineering students have changed dramatically since my day, I’ll bet she featured in more than a few of her classmate’s dreams. However, she said she now hated engineering and was completing a second degree in marketing. “With that combination I should be minted,” she said. I couldn’t argue with that.
But she also brought out my usually well-hidden puritan instincts. For much of our conversation she was massaging the upper thigh of the guy sitting next to her. No doubt his Rangers top made him irresistible, but they had only known each other for a maximum of ten minutes. It was, anyway, a short relationship as she left him for his pal and they spent most of the flight chewing each others’ faces, pausing only for the occasional swig of Buckie.
My contribution to the conversation had, anyway, come to an end. It is on occasions like these that portable music players really come into their own. With a pair of earphones and the volume turned up, you can be in a world of your own.
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