I ALWAYS imagined that if I worked from home I'd be like Sex and the City's Carrie Bradshaw, tapping away at a laptop, sprawled on a sofa.

The reality, on Monday morning, was me attempting an intense overseas phone interview, perched on my washing basket in the bathroom - the only place in my house with a decent phone reception.

Like many people, I'm now working at home. My kitchen table is my desk, I've scoffed a packet of Digestive biscuits, and I now know what my postman looks like.

While I'm disciplined about my working day (which is longer than in the office, as I'm logging onto my laptop early morning and late at night), I was, by day two, wearing jogging pants and an old T-shirt, thinking: "Is it worth washing my hair?" Not quite Carrie Bradshaw.