Broad Shoulders and Small Rituals: How I Learned to Enjoy My Work

I remember that morning quite well, sitting there and talking with The Mayor. He had this question in his head—how to make work more fun—and I could already feel where this was going. I told him straight away, “Sometimes difficult… better we leave that topic.” We both laughed. But in general, yes… in general, it is possible.

For me, it always begins with the people.

If you have a boss who stands behind you—really behind you, with broad shoulders—then everything feels different. You can breathe. You can do your job properly. Not this feeling of someone always pushing, pushing, pushing from above. No. Someone who says, “Go, I trust you.” That makes work lighter immediately.

The first time I really felt that was at Hoffmann. I still see it, like a picture in my head. There was this philosophy on the wall: the best thing we have is our workers. And they didn’t just write it—they lived it.

You came in the morning, seven o’clock, and there was fresh breakfast waiting. Organic. Everything organic. Apples, bread, juice… and nobody checking anything. No chip, no system. You just take it. Trust. That’s it. In Nürnberg they had two cooks, in Munich even three, because the company was bigger. It was not about luxury—it was about respect. And when you feel that, you work differently. You enjoy it more without even noticing.

The Mayor said, “Look after your people—it’s that simple.” And I thought, yes… sometimes it really is that simple.

Then he tried to bring me back to my own routine. Not philosophy, but my real day. He didn’t want to hear about coffee—he said that directly—but still, I had to smile, because even there I have my little habits. He told me about his Froot Loop mug.

But the real start of the working day is when I switch on my computer.

That click. Screen on. That’s it. Now it begins.

I look at what is coming—customers, emails, visits. Sometimes I drive out, sometimes I stay in the home office. It depends on the day. That day, for example, I had to first do my English lesson with The Mayor, then take the car back to the company. They had upgraded me to a bigger car before—very fine car—and now they wanted it back. I joked, I said maybe I just put my wife in the car and drive away. Wake up in Sicily. Why not? But no… in the end, I returned it like a good man.

After that, I had visits planned, and later we would go to my wife’s mother’s house, water the flowers, look after things. Normal life. And then comes the part I don’t like.

The monthly report.

I really hate it.

Not because the numbers are always bad—no, that’s not the point. It’s the process. You make a report, then your boss makes another one, then another one, and in the end someone at the top has a completely different story. And still, you sit there building PowerPoint slides.

So I have my way to survive it.

I put on music. Something in the background, something alive. It helps. And I take my breaks. I go into the kitchen, cut an apple, maybe eat something small. No food at the desk—that would be a disaster with the keyboard—but the kitchen is my checkpoint. I go there, take a breath, and then back again.

It doesn’t make the work beautiful—but it makes it possible.

The real fun starts when I am with customers.

The Mayor challenged me on that. He said, “Your products are not very sexy.” Degreasers, brake cleaners… he’s right. On paper, it’s boring. Very boring.

But I never start with the product.

I start with the person.

I go in and ask, “Do you work in your garden?” And suddenly we are somewhere else. Hedge cutters, chainsaws, hands in the soil. Then I connect my product to that. I say, “Look, this one—you can use it, and if it drops on the ground, no problem. It’s biological.”

And I see it immediately—the first ice is broken.

Now it’s not about chemicals anymore. It’s about something useful, something real. Then I give them a can. “Take it, try it.” And now we are talking. Not selling—talking.

It’s always about that.

The Mayor said something interesting—he said people don’t meet me because of the product, they meet me because of me. Maybe that’s true. When I come into a room, people listen. I bring stories, I bring humour. I show them pictures—like my spray can sitting in the passenger seat with a seatbelt, like it’s my colleague. People laugh. They remember it.

And now with these cartoons… that’s another level.

Even at home, the stories continue. We have hedgehogs in the garden. For three days they didn’t eat anything. Nothing. And then suddenly—eating, eating, eating. Like a restaurant opened overnight. These are the things that make life… alive.

That’s the same energy I bring to work.

Even cultural things make it interesting. Like in Hamburg, where they mix first name and formal address. It’s special. It shows respect, but also closeness. I like that. It’s these small human details that make the job rich. It’s the Hanseatic way of interacting.

And when a meeting goes bad? I change the scene. I say, “Come, let’s eat something. Or drink a beer.” And suddenly, everything becomes easier. People open up.

I also think about the trips. Last week, I was on the road with my boss, driving through Eastern Germany. Long talks, many visits. Hotels—one in Berlin at Alexanderplatz, which was a little adventure with the big car and parking. Another one in Cottbus. Simple rooms, but okay. Bed good, room good—that’s enough.

And of course, food.

We went to a restaurant, and my boss wanted asparagus. Everywhere in Germany, asparagus. But on the menu—nothing. And then comes the special card… asparagus soup, asparagus with schnitzel, with bacon. Suddenly, everything is possible again. These small moments, they stay with you.

The Mayor told his own story about trying to avoid asparagus in a restaurant and having to negotiate with the waitress. I had to laugh. Sometimes even food becomes a small adventure.

Then we came to tools.

I don’t talk to them, but I love them. Good tools are… honest. They do what they are supposed to do. No discussion. My fascination really started at Hoffmann, visiting manufacturers, seeing how tools are made better and better. Since then, I always want the better one. Even if I already have eight at home.

I remember my wife opening my toolbox once. “You have eight spanners,” she said. “You have two hands. Why do you need more?” And I tried to explain—different angles, different lengths—but she just looked at me. Sometimes, logic doesn’t win.

At the end, The Mayor asked me one last thing. If someone new joins, what would I teach them—not about the job, but about enjoying it.

For me, it’s simple.

Put them with the people.

Let them sit, listen, talk. No pressure. Let them feel how it works. Because everything comes back to that. Communication, trust, small moments.

That’s where the fun is.

Not in the product. Not in the report.

In the people.