A week ago, my darling, my best friend, was driving back from her mother’s house. She must have felt a slight pain in her chest and so pulled over into the parking area near Kloof Neck, which has a beautiful view of Camps Bay. There she died. When they found her, she had a smile on her face.

She has left behind her son, her parents and . . . me. Apart from all the grieving and loss, I have been thinking. Two of my staff have resigned, one to join a bigger consulting practice offering a better salary and the other to emigrate to England.

It is a loss, but one must move on. The question that I asked them both was: “Will you not miss our short working hours?” Surprisingly, neither of them said: “Oh yes, very much.”

The working hours in our consulting practice are from 09:30 to 15:30. These times are rigidly adhered to. You are not allowed to be late. You are not allowed to leave early. You are not allowed to “quickly go to the bank” or “just drop the car off” or “have half an hour off early to go to the hairdresser’s”. Nope. For the six hours between 09:30 and 15:30, you are present and working. On many Friday afternoons, if we can do it, if the workload allows, we will go home at 14:00.

I said to my departing two staff, you are never ever going to get these working hours anywhere else. They said they knew. I said to them, you are never going to work in an office where there is absolutely no dress code. Come in a track suit or shorts if you want. They said they knew. And I was very surprised because, for most of my younger life, I woke up at 05:00, got to work at 07:00, knocked off at 17:00 and got home at 19:00. My entire life was spent working for some organisation whose owner’s sole desire was to make as much money as possible. I promised everybody, but especially myself, that, when I started my own business, staff would not have to work hours that were inhumane.

In 1817, Welshman Robert Owen started a campaign to have people work no more than eight hours a day. His slogan was ‘Eight hours labour, eight hours recreation, eight hours rest’. I doubt that he would have interpreted this as do South African businesses, whereby you start work at 08:00 and finish at 17:00, which is actually nine hours. But the businesses claim that it is actually eight hours since you have a tea break and lunch break, which is one hour of your own time.

While we all say that time is money, very few of us want to be paid in units of time only. People prefer money. Lots. With money comes power. With power comes . . . more money.

What do the rich do with all that cash? There is surely a limited number of ski trips, diving expeditions, luxury yachts and massive houses that a person and their family can absorb. While they are sitting at the top, contemplating their next bit of luxury, at the bottom is some worker being paid very badly to spend 13 to 15 hours getting to work and being at work. And, so often, what people are manufacturing is really pointless stuff. Fashionable clothing, throat lozenges, guns and bullets . . . stuff that we do not really need, but advertising people try to convince us otherwise.

But you are never going to know when you are going to be grateful that you were paid in units of time. When somebody you love dies, the most sincere regret is that you did not spend enough time with them. Fortunately, I do not have this regret. I did spend enough time with her. More would be great but it is not possible. And I suggest to everybody reading this article: think of whom you love and spend some time with them. Trust me, on your deathbed, the biggest regret will not be that you did not spend enough time working. Make memories. Make videos of the memories. Spend as much time with them as you can.