Those who've been with me a while will know that the six months between March and September were bleak in the extreme (apart from the very high moment in August when I connected with a long-lost friend) while I was working at Fuckwittery Inc in a large south coast city.
Ever a glutton for punishment, when that contract finished, I applied for another job at one of Fuckwittery Inc's smaller country branches, with no real hope of anything being good except for the pension provision. Anyhoo. I started there on Tuesday.
Two days in and this, the country branch of FI, is proving to be the complete antithesis of FI (City).
In no particular order, I received a welcome card (!), I've been introduced around; today, a person who I met for about two minutes yesterday offered me cake and called me by my name; there are sufficient loos for the number of staff. There's a kitchen, with plates, cutlery, mugs, tea supplies and a microwave, there's a break-out/lunch area WHICH IS NOT IN THE CORRIDOR - with sofas and chairs and a table. Staff are treated with respect and trust, as sentient adults. There has been no three-day pointless Induction. I get mine on 6th January, and it will last for one day, and include a sandwich lunch. Fuckwittery Inc (City) managed a two-pack of slightly stale Lincoln biscuits and a plastic cup of stewed tea.
My colleague, Dive, is, amongst other things, an ex-matelot; he's what snowflakes might call ''un-woke'', but we get along swearily. We're about the same age, I'd think. Same terms of reference. We had the ''Do I offend you? If so tell me'' conversation yesterday, to which I said (having already successfully gauged the cut of his jib) ''Fuck, no!'' He laughed. I also pointed out to him that when he does offend me, he'd know about it - but that he shouldn't hold his breath because I'm too old to be a snowflake about much. He laughed again. I like him already - he's honest, he's forthright and he expects me to be the same. Today, he said I was a Rottweiler...I took it at as a compliment. He's not my boss - he's my equal, and we job-share. We are trusted to get on with shit, and we are not subjected to micro-management. We have an actual boss, but he's based at the slightly larger country branch further down the coast, and does high-brow things with money and legals, so we are seldom graced with his presence, nor are we likely to be. That's a shame, because he interviewed me (with Dive) and he seemed like a really good bloke.
The office I share with Dive is roomy, quiet and overlooks a garden area. There are windows - four of them - and they open. It has two proper desks, and decent tech equipment, a filing cabinet; Dive said I should have that. He travels light; being of a services mentality, he ''might have to get in and out quick''. Perhaps he was a naval ninja... We also have four intact chairs (two wheelie and two for visitors) and, get this...a cupboard, full-length, with HANGERS FOR OUR COATS!!! We have clean walls, a trio of what I'd call ''hotel art'' pictures, plus a photo of Dive's prized open-top Saab. It's his ''against the bad days'' charm. If he feels down, he looks at his picture and tells himself that he'll being going home with her later. Okay, I know that's not PC but, you know, (and this is me talking) I don't care.
We get on, the two of us.
Everything else will fall into place...
Oh, but on the downside, and typically, the IT doesn't work.
Wednesday 4 December 2019
Wednesday 19 June 2019
Friends in high places...friends in turbans...
It's been a while since I put fingertips to keyboard, but I figured, at the start of my tenure with Fucktwittery Inc. that there's only so much negativity that other people want to read. After a certain point, it all becomes just a wee bit...meh.
So I stopped. Jeebus, I was making myself even more depressed than I already was.
In a nutshell, since 21st May, things HAVE improved a bit - but only truly in the last two days when I finally got a colleague. The original holder of Gandalf of Excel's post has been on maternity leave, but she's back - and she appears to be a woman after my own heart. She is a ''getter-of-shit-done'', and that's good enough for me. She's also a ''do what you think best - tell me if it goes wrong (which I doubt it will) and I will sort it'' person. I think we will rub along quite nicely. Plus, she is The Merlin of Excel, and trumps Gandalf hands down. She's also further up the food chain than Cherub. It's all good. Cautious optimism.
Cherub hates me now. This is because I truly, TRULY got one over on her the week before last, and because I now have (by accident, not design) a friend in a VERY high place within Fuckwittery Inc.
The person who ended up helping me to solve a very sticky computer problem, just by dint of picking up the phone to me while passing through someone else's office and then making a side trip to the office on his way to a far more important meeting elsewhere on our floor, is SO far up the food chain that he's practically God Almighty himself. I had no idea who this person was. He told me his name was Lucky. I thought he was a simple tech nerd in IT. I explained the problem. He offered to come and help me.
And there he was, at my desk, helping me, when Cherub walked in and heard me, in conversation, calling him Lucky. It is, after all, his name.
''Oh, Mr Skywalker'', she spluttered. ''What are you doing here? I'm Cherub. I'm the Ops Manager on this floor''.
''I'm helping Pinny with a problem'', said Mr Skywalker, ignoring Cherub's introduction.
''But...but...how are you personally involved with such mundanity, Mr Skywalker?''
''Because I happened to pick up the phone. I do that sometimes''.
''Oh, but...'' said Cherub.
''Pinny'', said Lucky, ''...did exactly the right thing in taking the action she did''.
BACKGROUND INFO:I'd phoned an outside agency about a glitch in a programme that Fuckwittery Inc are paying for as part of my project - Cherub had hauled me over the coals like a five year old for that - mostly because I'd done it without asking her. Used to thinking for myself, see? AND she was at yet another meeting, so I had no-one else to ask about how I should go about things. I had, however, been introduced to a Charming Sikh Gentleman from Textcom, and had spoken to him for about thirty seconds, just after I started at FI. So I used my ''contact'', and phoned him. He was charming, and gave me some pointers.
And back to my tale...
''Furthermore'', said Lucky, ''I know the Charming Sikh Gentleman at Textcom to whom she spoke about this, and I have also spoken to him, and we have now sorted out Pinny's problem for her between us, after she had been struggling with this issue single-handedly for more than 24 hours. She should not have had to do that''.
''Okay now, Pinny?''
''Okay now, Pinny?''
''Yes, thanks, Lucky''
''Please let me know if you have any further problems, Pinny''.
''I shall, Lucky, and thank you so much for sorting this out for me''.
First name terms, see? Me and High-up-the-food-chain-almost God-Almighty-Lucky AND the Charming Sikh Gentleman - who turns out to be someone pretty important at Textcom.
Fuck you, Cherub.
Tuesday 21 May 2019
Don't bank on it...
Why is it that Lord Oakwood today had to drive into Hamwic (and right down to the bottom of Hamwic where the sea used to lap against the walls), pay to park, and go to his bank to get a telephone number from a cashier who couldn't have cared less about his problem, then drive all the way back home to Oakwood Hall to make a phone call to the Fraud line of his bank?
Lord Oakwood, being a traditional sort of a cove, doesn't subscribe to any sort of technology. He has a mobile phone, but it makes phone calls. It doesn't connect him to the rest of the Universe, surround him with apps for this and that, or allow him to watch porn or YouTube on demand. It's a phone. Computer, pads and tablets (unless medicinal) are not on his radar. He knows about radar, natch, but that's pretty much where technology ends for him. He still uses paper maps, for goodness sake.
Anyhoo. Lord Oakwood received his bank statement. He gave it a cursory glance to make sure that his regular incomings had in come, but was rather puzzled to find a mysterious entry for a debit of £7.99 to Amazon. For a ''download''. Rather in the way of Rowan Atkinson's judge, who tremulously queries, ''A di-gi-tal WATCH???'', he quizzed Lady Oakwood about what this mysterious item might be. She was none the wiser, although she DID understand that some scammy bastard appeared to be buying music with Lord Oakwood's debit card - and that that person wasn't Lord Oakwood.
Lord Oakwood went straight to the telephonic device in the hallway, found the telephone directory, and phoned the number given for the bank. Which didn't, of course, put him through to his ACTUAL bank, but instead linked him into a gigantic and convoluted Game of Numbers, requiring passwords he doesn't have (as he doesn't do telephone banking) and number combinations he didn't understand. After several minutes of fighting with both his hearing aid AND the labyrinthine ''system for your convenience'', he gave up and tried another tack. He got out his debit card and looked on the reverse. There was a number for Fraud. He rang said number. That number linked him straight back into the Game of Numbers, despite it being a different number to the bank number he'd already phoned. He was stymied.
Stuffing the statement into his pocket, and stalking irritably to the garage, Lord Oakwood got the motor out and set off to Hamwic, secure in the knowledge that there would at least be a real person to talk to at the bank. There was, indeed, a real person behind the counter at the bank. However, she could not have been in the least bit interested in his problem. She scribbled a number on the back of a piece of paper and told him to phone the Fraud line. The number she gave him was completely different to the number on the back of his card. A decent bit of customer service would have been to offer to phone the Fraud line for Lord Oakwood there and then, but that didn't happen. As Lord Oakwood later spat, when recalling the situation over supper, ''It wasn't even as though there was anyone else in the bank. She (the cashier) wasn't even doing anything when I arrived''. If he was a man capable of harrumphing, I think he would have let one rip, so exercised was he.
Back he came to Oakwood Hall, still with his problem unresolved, but with a number to call. He called, explained, and it was all sorted out - as was the second debit from his account, for the same sum, which actually went out of his account as the Fraud Officer was looking at it. That, as the Fraud Officer said, ''proved'' that Lord Oakwood's account had been compromised. Lord Oakwood could not have been downloading from Amazon at the exact same time that he was reporting a fraud.
Lord Oakwood is a healthy, sprightly chap (as those of you who know him IRL can attest). There are no flies on him, he has a full set of marbles, and he's fully able to stand up for himself. He just doesn't ''do'' technology. It saddens him beyond all reason that he can no longer make a simple phone call and speak to a person when he needs to. It annoys him that businesses and service providers assume that everyone is linked in to the digital highway, and that there's no way through for him without jumping through hoop after hoop after hoop, which he can't do. He feels disenfranchised. More than that, he's really pissed off that some toe-rag has nicked money from his account.
Lord Oakwood has gone out to see his friend this evening. Lady Oakwood is rather hoping that when he returns, he'll have got his mojo back. His bank card is another matter entirely...
Lord Oakwood, being a traditional sort of a cove, doesn't subscribe to any sort of technology. He has a mobile phone, but it makes phone calls. It doesn't connect him to the rest of the Universe, surround him with apps for this and that, or allow him to watch porn or YouTube on demand. It's a phone. Computer, pads and tablets (unless medicinal) are not on his radar. He knows about radar, natch, but that's pretty much where technology ends for him. He still uses paper maps, for goodness sake.
Anyhoo. Lord Oakwood received his bank statement. He gave it a cursory glance to make sure that his regular incomings had in come, but was rather puzzled to find a mysterious entry for a debit of £7.99 to Amazon. For a ''download''. Rather in the way of Rowan Atkinson's judge, who tremulously queries, ''A di-gi-tal WATCH???'', he quizzed Lady Oakwood about what this mysterious item might be. She was none the wiser, although she DID understand that some scammy bastard appeared to be buying music with Lord Oakwood's debit card - and that that person wasn't Lord Oakwood.
Lord Oakwood went straight to the telephonic device in the hallway, found the telephone directory, and phoned the number given for the bank. Which didn't, of course, put him through to his ACTUAL bank, but instead linked him into a gigantic and convoluted Game of Numbers, requiring passwords he doesn't have (as he doesn't do telephone banking) and number combinations he didn't understand. After several minutes of fighting with both his hearing aid AND the labyrinthine ''system for your convenience'', he gave up and tried another tack. He got out his debit card and looked on the reverse. There was a number for Fraud. He rang said number. That number linked him straight back into the Game of Numbers, despite it being a different number to the bank number he'd already phoned. He was stymied.
Stuffing the statement into his pocket, and stalking irritably to the garage, Lord Oakwood got the motor out and set off to Hamwic, secure in the knowledge that there would at least be a real person to talk to at the bank. There was, indeed, a real person behind the counter at the bank. However, she could not have been in the least bit interested in his problem. She scribbled a number on the back of a piece of paper and told him to phone the Fraud line. The number she gave him was completely different to the number on the back of his card. A decent bit of customer service would have been to offer to phone the Fraud line for Lord Oakwood there and then, but that didn't happen. As Lord Oakwood later spat, when recalling the situation over supper, ''It wasn't even as though there was anyone else in the bank. She (the cashier) wasn't even doing anything when I arrived''. If he was a man capable of harrumphing, I think he would have let one rip, so exercised was he.
Back he came to Oakwood Hall, still with his problem unresolved, but with a number to call. He called, explained, and it was all sorted out - as was the second debit from his account, for the same sum, which actually went out of his account as the Fraud Officer was looking at it. That, as the Fraud Officer said, ''proved'' that Lord Oakwood's account had been compromised. Lord Oakwood could not have been downloading from Amazon at the exact same time that he was reporting a fraud.
Lord Oakwood is a healthy, sprightly chap (as those of you who know him IRL can attest). There are no flies on him, he has a full set of marbles, and he's fully able to stand up for himself. He just doesn't ''do'' technology. It saddens him beyond all reason that he can no longer make a simple phone call and speak to a person when he needs to. It annoys him that businesses and service providers assume that everyone is linked in to the digital highway, and that there's no way through for him without jumping through hoop after hoop after hoop, which he can't do. He feels disenfranchised. More than that, he's really pissed off that some toe-rag has nicked money from his account.
Lord Oakwood has gone out to see his friend this evening. Lady Oakwood is rather hoping that when he returns, he'll have got his mojo back. His bank card is another matter entirely...
Monday 20 May 2019
Rock the frock...
'tis a good day indeed when Cherub is out of the office as she was today. I caught a glimpse of her teetering down the corridor, but she was far enough away that I didn't have to acknowledge her in any way.
'twas an even better day when I got a handle on a way through the mire of the job, simply by calling in a few favours from people who I have been working closely with, and who, in their turn, have had the full Cherub experience. I may just have turned a corner. Whether or not it's the corner that Cherub wants me to turn, I know and care not. At least I'll have something to counter with when she next goes off on one...
Happy days too, with the news that Mr A has been fashioning a prop for a costume party later in the year. Having seen the photos of said prop (Mark 1), I have to say my im was truly pressed. He IS a clever chap.
I'm spending the rest of this evening clearing out my wardrobe. When I arrived at Oakwood Hall 9 weeks (9 chuffin' WEEKS!!!) ago, I brought with me a carefully considered capsule wardrobe of ''office'' clothes, all fitting the brief of ''Office casual, but no jeans, no t-shirts, no strappy or low-cut tops, no flipflops''. Damn. I hated every item, as nicely cut and ''classic'' as they all were. The ''sensible'' trousers went home in week 2. The dull, monochrome ''office-coloured'' tops ditto. Everyone else looks so DRAB. They don't even wear ear-rings. Sod it all. I'm busting out the colourful frocks, the pretty shoes, the embroidery. Spring and Summer are hoving into view and, besides, the office is a furnace most of the time. I plan on invoking Menopause Rules if anyone says anything about my choices, although I fail to see how a nicely cut, expensive dress is less acceptable than a pair of black or grey trousers and a sensible top and acrylic cardi combo. I brought my favourite dresses up from the Anderson Shelter a couple of weeks ago, and have been wearing them. There have been ''looks'', I can tell you. I managed to score three lovely new dresses today, from the local (normally quite low-rent) charity shop in the local shopping centre: One from East, and two from Monsoon - total outlay, £15.00. Added to the rainbow cornucopia already in the wardrobe, I'm good to go. There are enough in there now to wear one every day for a fortnight without repetition. The other items have been purged to storage in my suitcase behind the door, pending removal. Tomorrow, see me flounce, and colour me Gorgeous...
'twas an even better day when I got a handle on a way through the mire of the job, simply by calling in a few favours from people who I have been working closely with, and who, in their turn, have had the full Cherub experience. I may just have turned a corner. Whether or not it's the corner that Cherub wants me to turn, I know and care not. At least I'll have something to counter with when she next goes off on one...
Happy days too, with the news that Mr A has been fashioning a prop for a costume party later in the year. Having seen the photos of said prop (Mark 1), I have to say my im was truly pressed. He IS a clever chap.
I'm spending the rest of this evening clearing out my wardrobe. When I arrived at Oakwood Hall 9 weeks (9 chuffin' WEEKS!!!) ago, I brought with me a carefully considered capsule wardrobe of ''office'' clothes, all fitting the brief of ''Office casual, but no jeans, no t-shirts, no strappy or low-cut tops, no flipflops''. Damn. I hated every item, as nicely cut and ''classic'' as they all were. The ''sensible'' trousers went home in week 2. The dull, monochrome ''office-coloured'' tops ditto. Everyone else looks so DRAB. They don't even wear ear-rings. Sod it all. I'm busting out the colourful frocks, the pretty shoes, the embroidery. Spring and Summer are hoving into view and, besides, the office is a furnace most of the time. I plan on invoking Menopause Rules if anyone says anything about my choices, although I fail to see how a nicely cut, expensive dress is less acceptable than a pair of black or grey trousers and a sensible top and acrylic cardi combo. I brought my favourite dresses up from the Anderson Shelter a couple of weeks ago, and have been wearing them. There have been ''looks'', I can tell you. I managed to score three lovely new dresses today, from the local (normally quite low-rent) charity shop in the local shopping centre: One from East, and two from Monsoon - total outlay, £15.00. Added to the rainbow cornucopia already in the wardrobe, I'm good to go. There are enough in there now to wear one every day for a fortnight without repetition. The other items have been purged to storage in my suitcase behind the door, pending removal. Tomorrow, see me flounce, and colour me Gorgeous...
Wednesday 15 May 2019
Showboating...
In my book of ''How to be a half-decent manager'', asking people who've been in post for 6 weeks to do something unnecessary and complicated, using a system that they've had hands on for about 10 minutes BECAUSE USING IT IS NOT PART OF THEIR JOB, and literally two minutes before they are scheduled to leave for the day, is not acceptable. It's especially not acceptable when what you're asking that person to do will stress them out completely BECAUSE THEY DON'T KNOW WHAT THEY'RE DOING, will cover YOUR arse in glory, and get you and your entire team out of a very sticky situation that's pretty much of your own making. Furthermore, it's not acceptable, when that person explains the ''lack of skills'' situation to you, to crowd into their personal space with your laptop and your deputy and throw back at them, ''Well, you DID say you could be flexible and adapt to the needs of the service, and that's what I'm expecting you to do now''. You tossing your hair back and sticking your nose in the air whilst saying it doesn't exactly endear you to me, either, you fucking showboater.
Well, when I said I COULD be flexible, I meant for you, Cherub, you with your Big Important Manager's Hat and Salary to Match, to work shit like this ''need'' out and ask me to help you with it BEFORE you fuck off to yet another meeting - especially to a meeting where you know someone is going to kick YOUR arse for failing to meet YOUR targets and because you're ill-prepared. Your failure. Not mine.
However (and breathe, Wilma. You've got this), with a bit of assistance from another colleague who had been listening incredulously to the conversation, I came through. The ''crisis'' turned out to be something that could easily have been dealt with tomorrow, but I dealt with it today, and will finish off dealing with it tomorrow. Unfortunately, I dealt with it so well that I fear I may have landed myself yet another ''task'' for Cherub to add to my list of STUFF THAT'S NOT MENTIONED IN ANY WAY ON MY JOB DESCRIPTION. We shall see.
I wouldn't have minded quite so much if I'd been sitting on my laurels all day - but I'd already, and off my own bat, spent a good deal of time preparing a document to take to the ''huddle'' tomorrow, to show off what I've achieved with the project (and no supervision) thus far - and how several of the teams have been achieving excellent stats as the result of the work we've been doing together. I'd even sent it to Cherub to vet before sending it out to the team leaders - not that I have to, but I thought it would be both polite and politic. Cherub basically then took my document to her meeting with the Big Cheeses - but didn't have the knowledge to explain any of the back-end stuff, nor any of the rationales covering how and why the project has been set up in the way it has. Hence...Arse-kicking. She should have taken me. WAAAAAAAAY above my paygrade, though. I did ask.
Having to deal with all that last-minute shit, though, has given me a bank of 45 minutes, which I intend to take back by leaving at precisely 2:15 on Friday afternoon. It has also made me some new chums - including, bizarrely, Butterball. At the ''height'' of ''negotiations'' between me and Cherub, Butterball disappeared. It was all getting a bit heated in the CTA team area, it's true. However, when Cherub had gone back to her meeting and I was doing my ''thing'', Butterball reappeared with tea and biscuits for me from her own personal stash, because she ''thought I'd need them''. This was A Good Thing. As was passing my final Medical Terminology Exam with perfect marks...I get a certificate and everything.
Well, when I said I COULD be flexible, I meant for you, Cherub, you with your Big Important Manager's Hat and Salary to Match, to work shit like this ''need'' out and ask me to help you with it BEFORE you fuck off to yet another meeting - especially to a meeting where you know someone is going to kick YOUR arse for failing to meet YOUR targets and because you're ill-prepared. Your failure. Not mine.
However (and breathe, Wilma. You've got this), with a bit of assistance from another colleague who had been listening incredulously to the conversation, I came through. The ''crisis'' turned out to be something that could easily have been dealt with tomorrow, but I dealt with it today, and will finish off dealing with it tomorrow. Unfortunately, I dealt with it so well that I fear I may have landed myself yet another ''task'' for Cherub to add to my list of STUFF THAT'S NOT MENTIONED IN ANY WAY ON MY JOB DESCRIPTION. We shall see.
I wouldn't have minded quite so much if I'd been sitting on my laurels all day - but I'd already, and off my own bat, spent a good deal of time preparing a document to take to the ''huddle'' tomorrow, to show off what I've achieved with the project (and no supervision) thus far - and how several of the teams have been achieving excellent stats as the result of the work we've been doing together. I'd even sent it to Cherub to vet before sending it out to the team leaders - not that I have to, but I thought it would be both polite and politic. Cherub basically then took my document to her meeting with the Big Cheeses - but didn't have the knowledge to explain any of the back-end stuff, nor any of the rationales covering how and why the project has been set up in the way it has. Hence...Arse-kicking. She should have taken me. WAAAAAAAAY above my paygrade, though. I did ask.
Having to deal with all that last-minute shit, though, has given me a bank of 45 minutes, which I intend to take back by leaving at precisely 2:15 on Friday afternoon. It has also made me some new chums - including, bizarrely, Butterball. At the ''height'' of ''negotiations'' between me and Cherub, Butterball disappeared. It was all getting a bit heated in the CTA team area, it's true. However, when Cherub had gone back to her meeting and I was doing my ''thing'', Butterball reappeared with tea and biscuits for me from her own personal stash, because she ''thought I'd need them''. This was A Good Thing. As was passing my final Medical Terminology Exam with perfect marks...I get a certificate and everything.
Thursday 9 May 2019
The Ministry of Truth, made flesh...
When I first came to work at Fuckwittery Inc., and when I was standing up for myself against a barrage of unfair shenanigans being imposed upon me by people who should have known better, I was severely castigated for calling the office in which I work, ''a fucking call centre''. The castigation wasn't for the epithet, but for having had the temerity of likening (and I quote) ''an office full of hard-working people who certainly don't EVER consider that they work in a call centre, and who would feel aggrieved that you consider the office to be one'' to a call centre. I was also told that I didn't know what I was talking about. The person who made those comments (the Fuckwittery Inc. ''Ops'' Manager - let's call her...Cherub) then went on to tell me that our office was as far from a call centre as it is possible to be - and she should know, BECAUSE SHE'D MANAGED ONE. I countered with, well, this IS a call centre. I know, because I worked in one for all of two days - and then I walked out, never to return. The conditions were terrible. You had to physically find a manager and ask permission to leave the floor to get a drink of water from the cooler, and even to have a wee, ffs. Added to that, we had to enter a code for each change of task, a code for being at your desk taking calls, a code for being at your desk but not taking a call, a code for being at your desk and writing a note, a code for...well, you get the drift. The micro-management at Fuckwittery Inc. struck me as being the same, not quite as high on the Draconian Scale of Servitude, it's true, but pretty damned close. Cherub, smiling sweetly beneath her light-oak perma-tan, assured me that these things would never happen at Fuckwittery Inc. and, besides, as I wasn't going to be doing those tasks, I shouldn't worry about it.
Anyway, all things being considered, we did agree to disagree on the subject, and things moved on. Contracts were amended, my job was sorted out. You've read about it here - at least, I hope you have.
Today, during the weekly ''huddle'', where the section heads meet to abase themselves before Cherub and explain, in minute detail, why their teams haven't met whatever ridiculous requirement has been set for them in the preceding week, the bombshell was dropped. It was like that scene in ''Deep Impact'' when the comet lands in the sea, miles off-shore and sucks all the water away from the beach before hurtling it back inland in waves several miles high. The intakes of breath were so deep, I almost ran for a crash trolley. Coming soon, and hanging over my poor benighted colleagues like a veritable Sword of Damocles, will be the very same conditions as the call centre that they're ''not''. It's all being done, of course, so that Cherub and the Ops Team can see where ''teams are struggling with workload'' and can ''assist'' with providing ''additional resources''. It's not a call centre, though. It's also being done so that individuals and teams can be set ''realistic'' performance targets, and so that under-performing individuals can be boot-camped or (probably) booted out. But it's not a call centre in any way. Each member of staff will be personally responsible for making sure that codes are input when beginning the working day, when comfort and lunch breaks are taken and when they are away from their workstations FOR ANY REASON; there will be task codes for every task (not sure what happens to people whose jobs are multi-functional, as they'll spend more time putting codes in than they will doing the actual jobs). Still not a call centre. There will be one of those gigantic screens in the corner of the office (sorry, call centre) showing running stats for each section, which will ''engender healthy competition''. SO not a call centre. Not even CLOSE. I shit you not. Those words were used. Cherub then said, with the air of a really nasty gang boss, ''of course, it's imperative that we know where every AGENT is and what they're engaged in doing AT ALL TIMES, so that we can justify any business decision to request additional finance and other resources''. If referring to staff as agents ain't corporate speak for ''call-centre drones'', then I'm the Queen-elect of Southern Pago-Pago. These people already work like dogs, under vile and intimidating conditions, and my heart is breaking for them - even the ones I don't like very much.
Seriously. It was awful. Tuppence, my new pal from one of the sections, actually hissed. I've never seen a dozen people's shoulders droop so suddenly and so far, en mass. I kept my head down. I wasn't even supposed to be in the meeting but, even though I don't work for her, my current desk is within Cherub's purlieu and I was mid-task when the team leaders arrived. Luckily, this latest fuckwittery doesn't affect me one jot. I'm not wired into the Matrix like the rest of the staff, and I don't deal with real people either by phone or face-to-face. There has been an air of real dejection hanging smog-like over the desks all day and much muttering in corners.
Oh, and on Monday, I have to give up my desk and move back to Butterball's section so that Cherub can move into ''my'' desk - but that's a tale for another day. There's only so much hate I can direct towards one person in one day - or subject my readers to...
One bright note: who in their right mind names a child Loki? That's a lot of name to live up to, going through life. It cropped up today. Can't tell you where, or in what context, just believe that it did, and smile like I did - after all, it's fun, and tomorrow is Friday. Let's hope there's gin.
Anyway, all things being considered, we did agree to disagree on the subject, and things moved on. Contracts were amended, my job was sorted out. You've read about it here - at least, I hope you have.
Today, during the weekly ''huddle'', where the section heads meet to abase themselves before Cherub and explain, in minute detail, why their teams haven't met whatever ridiculous requirement has been set for them in the preceding week, the bombshell was dropped. It was like that scene in ''Deep Impact'' when the comet lands in the sea, miles off-shore and sucks all the water away from the beach before hurtling it back inland in waves several miles high. The intakes of breath were so deep, I almost ran for a crash trolley. Coming soon, and hanging over my poor benighted colleagues like a veritable Sword of Damocles, will be the very same conditions as the call centre that they're ''not''. It's all being done, of course, so that Cherub and the Ops Team can see where ''teams are struggling with workload'' and can ''assist'' with providing ''additional resources''. It's not a call centre, though. It's also being done so that individuals and teams can be set ''realistic'' performance targets, and so that under-performing individuals can be boot-camped or (probably) booted out. But it's not a call centre in any way. Each member of staff will be personally responsible for making sure that codes are input when beginning the working day, when comfort and lunch breaks are taken and when they are away from their workstations FOR ANY REASON; there will be task codes for every task (not sure what happens to people whose jobs are multi-functional, as they'll spend more time putting codes in than they will doing the actual jobs). Still not a call centre. There will be one of those gigantic screens in the corner of the office (sorry, call centre) showing running stats for each section, which will ''engender healthy competition''. SO not a call centre. Not even CLOSE. I shit you not. Those words were used. Cherub then said, with the air of a really nasty gang boss, ''of course, it's imperative that we know where every AGENT is and what they're engaged in doing AT ALL TIMES, so that we can justify any business decision to request additional finance and other resources''. If referring to staff as agents ain't corporate speak for ''call-centre drones'', then I'm the Queen-elect of Southern Pago-Pago. These people already work like dogs, under vile and intimidating conditions, and my heart is breaking for them - even the ones I don't like very much.
Seriously. It was awful. Tuppence, my new pal from one of the sections, actually hissed. I've never seen a dozen people's shoulders droop so suddenly and so far, en mass. I kept my head down. I wasn't even supposed to be in the meeting but, even though I don't work for her, my current desk is within Cherub's purlieu and I was mid-task when the team leaders arrived. Luckily, this latest fuckwittery doesn't affect me one jot. I'm not wired into the Matrix like the rest of the staff, and I don't deal with real people either by phone or face-to-face. There has been an air of real dejection hanging smog-like over the desks all day and much muttering in corners.
Oh, and on Monday, I have to give up my desk and move back to Butterball's section so that Cherub can move into ''my'' desk - but that's a tale for another day. There's only so much hate I can direct towards one person in one day - or subject my readers to...
One bright note: who in their right mind names a child Loki? That's a lot of name to live up to, going through life. It cropped up today. Can't tell you where, or in what context, just believe that it did, and smile like I did - after all, it's fun, and tomorrow is Friday. Let's hope there's gin.
Wednesday 8 May 2019
Scents and sensibilities...
Do not, my friends, allow perfume to spill in your handbag. This is particularly irksome if you don't realise it's happened until it's too late. I'd been walking round all weekend thinking I could smell my perfume rather more than usual - and assuming it was just because I'd been squirting it with a slightly heavier hand. Nope. It was because the lid had come off. Checked the bag. Didn't seem to be any damage, or sogginess. Evaporation. Yes, that'd be why there was no trace of damp. I sometimes remember bits of science, despite my best efforts to forget.
Now I know that perfume, out of the bottle and into a bag, is capable of bleaching every single bit of ink from a railcard, thus rendering it invalid. It's also capable of doing the same on two unused return tickets I had in the same wallet (about £25-worth of wasted ticket) and on all the receipts that I was saving for the tax man. As the railcard saves me 1/3 on every trip I take to home and back, it had to be replaced. Only problem was, no replacement is possible without the receipt. Even if I'd had the receipt, I'd have had to pay £10 for ''administration fees''. Gritted my teeth and paid £30 for a new one, fuming. Handbag smells lovely, though...
Still, that notwithstanding, the gods were on my side today when Boots pretty much paid me to take away a load of Clarins; their current offer is ''buy a couple of things (which I planned to do anyway), we'll give you three freebies and a pretty bag, plus £10-worth of loyalty points''. Decent enough deal. Even more of a decent deal when by cunning chicanery, I was able to deploy not only a double points voucher for the purchase price, PLUS a ''200 extra points when you spend £20'' voucher; added to the £10-worth of points they were already giving me in the deal, AND an extra free item because the consultant obviously couldn't count, they were almost giving me the whole package for about £5. I gave the extra freebie to Lady Oakwood. She was delighted. The 50ml moisturiser she received is worth about £35 on its own. I also have one as part of the deal. Happy days.
And, in another delightful ''mitigating the perfume and railcard debacle'' event, I found out today that one of the ophthalmologists is called Mr Lash...
Now I know that perfume, out of the bottle and into a bag, is capable of bleaching every single bit of ink from a railcard, thus rendering it invalid. It's also capable of doing the same on two unused return tickets I had in the same wallet (about £25-worth of wasted ticket) and on all the receipts that I was saving for the tax man. As the railcard saves me 1/3 on every trip I take to home and back, it had to be replaced. Only problem was, no replacement is possible without the receipt. Even if I'd had the receipt, I'd have had to pay £10 for ''administration fees''. Gritted my teeth and paid £30 for a new one, fuming. Handbag smells lovely, though...
Still, that notwithstanding, the gods were on my side today when Boots pretty much paid me to take away a load of Clarins; their current offer is ''buy a couple of things (which I planned to do anyway), we'll give you three freebies and a pretty bag, plus £10-worth of loyalty points''. Decent enough deal. Even more of a decent deal when by cunning chicanery, I was able to deploy not only a double points voucher for the purchase price, PLUS a ''200 extra points when you spend £20'' voucher; added to the £10-worth of points they were already giving me in the deal, AND an extra free item because the consultant obviously couldn't count, they were almost giving me the whole package for about £5. I gave the extra freebie to Lady Oakwood. She was delighted. The 50ml moisturiser she received is worth about £35 on its own. I also have one as part of the deal. Happy days.
And, in another delightful ''mitigating the perfume and railcard debacle'' event, I found out today that one of the ophthalmologists is called Mr Lash...
Monday 29 April 2019
Spring is in the air, and in my step
...for the wisteria is in full, fragrant flower at Oakwood Hall, and the office fuckwittery may finally be over.
I have finally agreed terms. Office hours will now be 30 per week, as originally advertised in the job spec. An agreed 9.00am start is a wonderful thing - as is a 3.30pm finish, especially when your lovely dad comes to pick you up and take you shopping. A new (and hopefully correct) contract is being prepared. I'm now in full charge of the project for five weeks, until Gandalf's replacement arrives, and I'm giving it all my full attention. As the person who is supposed to be my supervisor has not a Scooby about the project, or what it entails, I can pretty much just...well, do what I like. Life is sweet.
This evening, Middle Kid came over on his way home from work, and we seeded the idea of a Diamond Wedding anniversary event of some sort with Lord and Lady Oakwood. It's going to be weird. The last ''big'' anniversaries were mostly planned and executed by me and Sissy; Middle Kid, who is considerably richer than either of us are or were, contributed funds. It worked. This time, with Sissy no longer with us, it's all a bit ''empty chair''-ish, and Middle Kid and I will be doing it between us, assisted by Mr A and Middle Kid's Bird. Still, Lord and Lady Oakwood would like a bit of a ''do'' - low-key, intimate and only with (and I quote) ''people we like and want to invite''. This is good. This is so good, that Middle Kid and I did the ''sideways glance of relief'' to each other. It means no ancient bridesmaids, no ''better-invite-them-in-case-they-get-offendeds'', no ''just-in-cases''. Just the (very) few rellies who everyone likes, a couple of old and dear friends, plus immediate family. We're thinking summer picnic vibe. Middle Kid has a swimming pool in his garden. It will be different, but it will be good, and fun and, although there WILL be an empty chair, it will have spirit.
I'm going to apply to have Betty Windsor send one of her special cards from the Palace for the event. Cuzzy-in-the-West has already helped with planning that. Shamefacedly, I had no idea of the exact date of Lord and Lady Oakwood's nuptials; I knew the year, and the place, but other than that, just a vague idea of it all having happened over August Bank Holiday in the year before I was born. Luckily Aunt-in-the West came up trumps, having been prompted by Cuzzy. It's all good.
And then, in other good, there's wisteria. It's all VERY good.
I have finally agreed terms. Office hours will now be 30 per week, as originally advertised in the job spec. An agreed 9.00am start is a wonderful thing - as is a 3.30pm finish, especially when your lovely dad comes to pick you up and take you shopping. A new (and hopefully correct) contract is being prepared. I'm now in full charge of the project for five weeks, until Gandalf's replacement arrives, and I'm giving it all my full attention. As the person who is supposed to be my supervisor has not a Scooby about the project, or what it entails, I can pretty much just...well, do what I like. Life is sweet.
This evening, Middle Kid came over on his way home from work, and we seeded the idea of a Diamond Wedding anniversary event of some sort with Lord and Lady Oakwood. It's going to be weird. The last ''big'' anniversaries were mostly planned and executed by me and Sissy; Middle Kid, who is considerably richer than either of us are or were, contributed funds. It worked. This time, with Sissy no longer with us, it's all a bit ''empty chair''-ish, and Middle Kid and I will be doing it between us, assisted by Mr A and Middle Kid's Bird. Still, Lord and Lady Oakwood would like a bit of a ''do'' - low-key, intimate and only with (and I quote) ''people we like and want to invite''. This is good. This is so good, that Middle Kid and I did the ''sideways glance of relief'' to each other. It means no ancient bridesmaids, no ''better-invite-them-in-case-they-get-offendeds'', no ''just-in-cases''. Just the (very) few rellies who everyone likes, a couple of old and dear friends, plus immediate family. We're thinking summer picnic vibe. Middle Kid has a swimming pool in his garden. It will be different, but it will be good, and fun and, although there WILL be an empty chair, it will have spirit.
I'm going to apply to have Betty Windsor send one of her special cards from the Palace for the event. Cuzzy-in-the-West has already helped with planning that. Shamefacedly, I had no idea of the exact date of Lord and Lady Oakwood's nuptials; I knew the year, and the place, but other than that, just a vague idea of it all having happened over August Bank Holiday in the year before I was born. Luckily Aunt-in-the West came up trumps, having been prompted by Cuzzy. It's all good.
And then, in other good, there's wisteria. It's all VERY good.
Tuesday 23 April 2019
...''and may the odds be forever in your favour!..
Another day, another meaningless three hour course. Scheduling a course on the day after the Easter break strikes me as pretty stupid, especially as, when I got there, it wasn't even relevant to my job. Let's just call it ''Box-ticking 101'' and be done with it.
I've come to the conclusion that the organisation I currently work for exists, despite it's exhortations otherwise, purely to keep lots of analysts and trainers in work, endlessly churning out statistics and reports and running courses on how to keep the organisation compliant. All of the computer systems we use are top-heavy, ridiculously convoluted and complicated - and were obviously designed by some malevolent government goblin who's never actually done any of the jobs that the system is designed to work with. I use the word ''designed'' in its loosest possible sense, of course.
Today, it took three hours to explain how the others in the room must use this system in order to comply with a particular government diktat. The diktat itself has quite a simple premise. Get them in. Get the job done within a specific timescale. Close the record when you've finished doing the job. Unfortunately, there are lots of built-in differences, depending on the most bizarre of circumstances, every one of which these poor saps are supposed to know and remember. When the trainer went out for her break, one of the other trainees looked up and said what we were all thinking; ''How come those of us that do the job at the ground level and get paid the least, are the ones who have to be personally responsibly for compliance''? Seriously, that's how it works. If they make a mistake, there are huge financial penalties levied against the organisation, PER MISTAKE - and there are a lot of opportunities to make mistakes, because the system is so convoluted. Couple that with regular forensic auditing and...well. You get the gist.
Still. I went, I listened, I took the test and (sort of ) passed - we all did, but only because, when the trainer went out of the room, we all cheated and talked together about what we had written. I'm pretty sure none of us took much away from the session except for a looming sense of doom. It's not nice for people to feel as though at any moment, they might be hauled across a bed of coals for a tiny infraction. I'm wondering if the area outside the front entrance isn't, in fact, to be transformed in to a new treatment area but, instead, will be the modern equivalent of the Tyburn tree, or a Particicution arena. I've seen the Hunger Games. I didn't realise I should have been taking survival strategy notes...
Gandalf leaves on Thursday. I am still no closer to finding out what happens to me and my job when she goes, and during the five weeks before her replacement returns to work. Still, she has promised me a Handover file, which she's been writing for the last two weeks. Every day, all day. I'm of the mind that perhaps she'd have been better employed actually teaching me to do the shit I'm going to have to do, but still. That's how they do things in the North Wing.
I've come to the conclusion that the organisation I currently work for exists, despite it's exhortations otherwise, purely to keep lots of analysts and trainers in work, endlessly churning out statistics and reports and running courses on how to keep the organisation compliant. All of the computer systems we use are top-heavy, ridiculously convoluted and complicated - and were obviously designed by some malevolent government goblin who's never actually done any of the jobs that the system is designed to work with. I use the word ''designed'' in its loosest possible sense, of course.
Today, it took three hours to explain how the others in the room must use this system in order to comply with a particular government diktat. The diktat itself has quite a simple premise. Get them in. Get the job done within a specific timescale. Close the record when you've finished doing the job. Unfortunately, there are lots of built-in differences, depending on the most bizarre of circumstances, every one of which these poor saps are supposed to know and remember. When the trainer went out for her break, one of the other trainees looked up and said what we were all thinking; ''How come those of us that do the job at the ground level and get paid the least, are the ones who have to be personally responsibly for compliance''? Seriously, that's how it works. If they make a mistake, there are huge financial penalties levied against the organisation, PER MISTAKE - and there are a lot of opportunities to make mistakes, because the system is so convoluted. Couple that with regular forensic auditing and...well. You get the gist.
Still. I went, I listened, I took the test and (sort of ) passed - we all did, but only because, when the trainer went out of the room, we all cheated and talked together about what we had written. I'm pretty sure none of us took much away from the session except for a looming sense of doom. It's not nice for people to feel as though at any moment, they might be hauled across a bed of coals for a tiny infraction. I'm wondering if the area outside the front entrance isn't, in fact, to be transformed in to a new treatment area but, instead, will be the modern equivalent of the Tyburn tree, or a Particicution arena. I've seen the Hunger Games. I didn't realise I should have been taking survival strategy notes...
Gandalf leaves on Thursday. I am still no closer to finding out what happens to me and my job when she goes, and during the five weeks before her replacement returns to work. Still, she has promised me a Handover file, which she's been writing for the last two weeks. Every day, all day. I'm of the mind that perhaps she'd have been better employed actually teaching me to do the shit I'm going to have to do, but still. That's how they do things in the North Wing.
Wednesday 17 April 2019
There's a five minute break, and it's all you take, for a cup of cold coffee and a piece of cake...
I heard on the news this morning that people in the UK work the longest hours in the whole of Europe, but are less productive than workers in every other European country. I don't know if that's true, but what I do know is this; if certain people attended fewer meetings and the rest of us were afforded less draconian work regimes and proper rest breaks in conducive surroundings, we'd all certainly be more productive.
In my current workplace (no names, no pack-drill - if you know me, you'll know where I work) our time is micro-managed and overseen to the nano-second. It's not pleasant being permanently scrutinised - nor to feel as though you're not trusted. It's not pleasant to have someone ring the trainer 45 minutes into a one-to-one, one hour planned training session just to ask if you, as the trainee, are ''coping okay'' - when what they're really asking is ''Has the sneaky cow actually turned up for the training session, or is she out the back having a pint and a crafty fag''? This happened to me today. I actually heard the words come out of the Butterball's mouth - the very nice trainer actually had his phone on speaker. That we were talking about whisky at the time was neither here nor there. His raised eyebrows and sideways glance at Butterball's question spoke volumes. He was pissed off, and he could tell I was too - so when the phone went down, he looked at me and said, ''So. Where were we? Oh, yes''' (frantic scrolling through Amazon on tablet), ''This is the whisky I think you should try. It's pretty peaty...''. Then we talked about gin for a while. We hadn't needed the hour. He was only handing me over a data-access card and telling me that if I misuse it, I'll go to prison. I got the gist. He realised I have a brain.
Most of yesterday, I was alone in the section while everyone else went to a management meeting, followed by a team leaders meeting, followed by a planning meeting. All fucking day. Meetings about meetings about meetings. And strategy about meeting the targets for meetings. And planning for progress in the meetings about meetings.
I ate lunch after my training session. I ate my lunch sitting on the windowsill in the corridor. It looks out over an internal building well. It's not ideal, but it's more conducive than sitting in the allotted ''break out'' area in the office; three chairs and a table, stuffed into an airless, windowless alcove in the corner. It serves an office of around 75, give or take. I work for a national organisation which promotes health and well-being. We have a scant 30 minutes for lunch, in a part of the building which is a good 7 minute walk away from the canteen - a canteen shared by workers and the public. No chance of going down for a hot lunch. It's also a good 7 minutes to the nearest coffee/shopping concession. 14 minutes (plus queuing time) there and back. There's a grassed area outside, but that takes 5 minutes to get to, even when walking briskly. Ten minutes travel time, out of a thirty minute break. No wonder everyone looks dyspeptic after lunch. The large and popular tiered seating area outside the front of the building has recently been cordoned off and is being dug up to provide space for a new treatment unit. I can't believe that when our wing was built, no-one considered that the several thousand staff working in the offices and other departments might need somewhere close by and easily accessible to escape to.
I still haven't signed my contract. There is further fuckwittery afoot.
In my current workplace (no names, no pack-drill - if you know me, you'll know where I work) our time is micro-managed and overseen to the nano-second. It's not pleasant being permanently scrutinised - nor to feel as though you're not trusted. It's not pleasant to have someone ring the trainer 45 minutes into a one-to-one, one hour planned training session just to ask if you, as the trainee, are ''coping okay'' - when what they're really asking is ''Has the sneaky cow actually turned up for the training session, or is she out the back having a pint and a crafty fag''? This happened to me today. I actually heard the words come out of the Butterball's mouth - the very nice trainer actually had his phone on speaker. That we were talking about whisky at the time was neither here nor there. His raised eyebrows and sideways glance at Butterball's question spoke volumes. He was pissed off, and he could tell I was too - so when the phone went down, he looked at me and said, ''So. Where were we? Oh, yes''' (frantic scrolling through Amazon on tablet), ''This is the whisky I think you should try. It's pretty peaty...''. Then we talked about gin for a while. We hadn't needed the hour. He was only handing me over a data-access card and telling me that if I misuse it, I'll go to prison. I got the gist. He realised I have a brain.
Most of yesterday, I was alone in the section while everyone else went to a management meeting, followed by a team leaders meeting, followed by a planning meeting. All fucking day. Meetings about meetings about meetings. And strategy about meeting the targets for meetings. And planning for progress in the meetings about meetings.
I ate lunch after my training session. I ate my lunch sitting on the windowsill in the corridor. It looks out over an internal building well. It's not ideal, but it's more conducive than sitting in the allotted ''break out'' area in the office; three chairs and a table, stuffed into an airless, windowless alcove in the corner. It serves an office of around 75, give or take. I work for a national organisation which promotes health and well-being. We have a scant 30 minutes for lunch, in a part of the building which is a good 7 minute walk away from the canteen - a canteen shared by workers and the public. No chance of going down for a hot lunch. It's also a good 7 minutes to the nearest coffee/shopping concession. 14 minutes (plus queuing time) there and back. There's a grassed area outside, but that takes 5 minutes to get to, even when walking briskly. Ten minutes travel time, out of a thirty minute break. No wonder everyone looks dyspeptic after lunch. The large and popular tiered seating area outside the front of the building has recently been cordoned off and is being dug up to provide space for a new treatment unit. I can't believe that when our wing was built, no-one considered that the several thousand staff working in the offices and other departments might need somewhere close by and easily accessible to escape to.
I still haven't signed my contract. There is further fuckwittery afoot.
Monday 15 April 2019
Tout est perdu...
Watching a terrible fire gradually destroy Notre Dame in Paris. All that beauty on the Ile de la Cité. The wooden spire and roof have both fallen, the beautiful windows are gone; there's a fight to try and rescue some of the artwork and artifacts from the back of the cathedral, but no-one is hopeful. The very structure of the iconic northern tower is in question and, if that goes, the southern tower and the belfry will not survive. An interviewee said it was doubtful that any part of the cathedral will still be standing by morning. 850 years of history and liturgy lost. The true heart of Paris, gone...
Thursday 11 April 2019
''Warp speed, Mr Sulu''...
...''and take us out''. My thoughts this morning as I finally got allocated a proper chair. It's ridiculously big, has the largest, fully-adjustable arm-rests I've ever seen, and makes me feel like I'm in charge of the bridge on the USS Enterprise. My desk is huge, too - but the big-cheese corporate-ness of it is slightly lessened by the pink balloons left pinned to the wall by the last incumbent.
Yes, things have moved on apace since yesterday. I have Post-its. I have pens. I have a file with inserts and pockets and I have my own stapler and staple remover. I have two screens to flip stuff about on, like Tom Cruise in ''Minority Report''. I have my own fan. I have resolution.
The meeting was productive. There will be further discussions about hours, and the lessening thereof, with a final decision made next week. My suggestions for how we could resolve the service issues on a reduced hours basis were met with a decent amount of positivity. There have been discussions about expectations and the non-fulfillment thereof (on their part). There have been apologies. There have been assurances about contracts and job content. There have been promises of no more fuckwittery, and copious thanks for my honesty and co-operation. I think I am happy - and I'm pretty sure they are too.
It's all good. As was the charity fashion show I went to this evening, where £850 was raised to purchase Makaton equipment for a local special school. There was prosecco. I'd have preferred gin, but you don't often get that at events for ''ladies''. I made do. Twice.
Oakwood Hall is quiet, and I'm settling down for the night now. Lord and Lady Oakwood, I'm assuming, made landfall safely and will now be firmly ensconced in the Flatlands. I'm looking forward to being able to make as much noise as I like at 6am tomorrow, instead of creeping around trying not to wake them up - and tomorrow is Friday. Mr A will be here for the weekend, the Sunday allotment meeting has been cancelled, so we are set fair and free until Monday.
Blessed be.
Yes, things have moved on apace since yesterday. I have Post-its. I have pens. I have a file with inserts and pockets and I have my own stapler and staple remover. I have two screens to flip stuff about on, like Tom Cruise in ''Minority Report''. I have my own fan. I have resolution.
The meeting was productive. There will be further discussions about hours, and the lessening thereof, with a final decision made next week. My suggestions for how we could resolve the service issues on a reduced hours basis were met with a decent amount of positivity. There have been discussions about expectations and the non-fulfillment thereof (on their part). There have been apologies. There have been assurances about contracts and job content. There have been promises of no more fuckwittery, and copious thanks for my honesty and co-operation. I think I am happy - and I'm pretty sure they are too.
It's all good. As was the charity fashion show I went to this evening, where £850 was raised to purchase Makaton equipment for a local special school. There was prosecco. I'd have preferred gin, but you don't often get that at events for ''ladies''. I made do. Twice.
Oakwood Hall is quiet, and I'm settling down for the night now. Lord and Lady Oakwood, I'm assuming, made landfall safely and will now be firmly ensconced in the Flatlands. I'm looking forward to being able to make as much noise as I like at 6am tomorrow, instead of creeping around trying not to wake them up - and tomorrow is Friday. Mr A will be here for the weekend, the Sunday allotment meeting has been cancelled, so we are set fair and free until Monday.
Blessed be.
Wednesday 10 April 2019
Plans are afoot...
Lord and Lady Oakwood are en route to the (other) country house. I hesitate to say for ''the weekend'', lest Lady Violet sneer at me for being a parvenu, but they will reside there from Thursday to Monday, leaving me rattling around at Oakwood Hall for the duration. I'm trying not to be green with envy at the thought of them stuffing their faces with chocolates and fritjes, or swooping up to Sluis on Sunday for poffertjes at Kaai 39. Still, Mr A will be coming to call on Friday, and we have cunning plans of our own.
I've noticed, in my trips to town, three micropubs - all in the same vicinity, and all reachable by public transport from Oakwood Hall. This fills Mr A with a mixture of delight, coupled with abject fear - delight at the thought that he can have as many scoops of delicious ale as he likes without risking his driving licence and fear at the thought of having to sit on a bus with the great unwashed. Still, like my job, it's a means to an end, and will fill Friday evening quite nicely. Saturday, we'll venture further afield, perhaps even into Hamwic proper. There's a decent art gallery and ''big shops'', and I'm sure we can fill our time there until the evening. I've not ''done town'' of an evening since I last lived here in 1988. We could be in for a proper shock.
Before then, though, there's a MEETING and fuckwittery to address, and a fashion show to attend. Life's not too bad, even though I'm absolutely knackered; brain-knackered mostly, not physically knackered. I'd forgotten how bloody tiring it is to cram your cranium with book-learnin'. Means to an end, though, means to an end. This is my mantra du jour, and I constantly repeat it under my breath. It keeps the fuckwittery at bay...
I've noticed, in my trips to town, three micropubs - all in the same vicinity, and all reachable by public transport from Oakwood Hall. This fills Mr A with a mixture of delight, coupled with abject fear - delight at the thought that he can have as many scoops of delicious ale as he likes without risking his driving licence and fear at the thought of having to sit on a bus with the great unwashed. Still, like my job, it's a means to an end, and will fill Friday evening quite nicely. Saturday, we'll venture further afield, perhaps even into Hamwic proper. There's a decent art gallery and ''big shops'', and I'm sure we can fill our time there until the evening. I've not ''done town'' of an evening since I last lived here in 1988. We could be in for a proper shock.
Before then, though, there's a MEETING and fuckwittery to address, and a fashion show to attend. Life's not too bad, even though I'm absolutely knackered; brain-knackered mostly, not physically knackered. I'd forgotten how bloody tiring it is to cram your cranium with book-learnin'. Means to an end, though, means to an end. This is my mantra du jour, and I constantly repeat it under my breath. It keeps the fuckwittery at bay...
Tuesday 9 April 2019
A tiny glimmer...
Things are moving on apace. Today, I finally got to do some substantial parts of the job I was actually employed to do, I have a proper, fixed desk (and my own chair!) within my new team's space, and I have found and appropriated my own stapler and staple remover. The sleight of hand was remarkable. Wondering if I could look towards a future job as a pickpocket...
Oh, and THE meeting is set for Thursday. Watch this space.
In other news, a new bank member of staff arrived today. He'd applied for, and got, a post which was advertised as being a clerk with duties shared 25% with us and 75% with a similar office at another site. He had good reasons for doing so. He lives very close to the other site, and it's easier for him to get there, for what would be the majority of his working week. He was with us today for some training, and fully expecting to be deployed in the role he'd applied for. ''Oh, no'', says Butterball. ''You'll be here with us full-time. We're not sharing any posts with the (***) any more. All the admin is being dealt with from this office now''. Why does this put me in mind of me and, more to the point, how are they getting away with it???
Oh, and THE meeting is set for Thursday. Watch this space.
In other news, a new bank member of staff arrived today. He'd applied for, and got, a post which was advertised as being a clerk with duties shared 25% with us and 75% with a similar office at another site. He had good reasons for doing so. He lives very close to the other site, and it's easier for him to get there, for what would be the majority of his working week. He was with us today for some training, and fully expecting to be deployed in the role he'd applied for. ''Oh, no'', says Butterball. ''You'll be here with us full-time. We're not sharing any posts with the (***) any more. All the admin is being dealt with from this office now''. Why does this put me in mind of me and, more to the point, how are they getting away with it???
Monday 8 April 2019
Fuckwittery...
There is still fuckwittery afoot. The ''break-out'' area meeting was postponed until later in the week, but I'm maintaining an air of blasé detachment about the whole thing, which may or may not be driving people mad. Truth to tell, I've never been so ''nice'' about fuckwittery before - and I'm quite scaring myself. My normal default position is full-on redhead with added berserker, as those of you who know me will probably agree.
In a nutshell, what is happening is that, in January, I applied for a job with a fixed term, six-month contract. I had my reasons for this - very specific reasons. When I got to the first interview I asked, again very specifically, why the job was vacant and I was told that the job wasn't vacant as such, that it was actually a completely new post, as an assistant to the person running a very interesting project, and the funding was in place for 6 months. At the end of 6 months, the project would either have worked or not, and we could then re-negotiate a longer stay, or I could leave. It was also specified that, as the assistant to the project, the project would be my main focus, but I might be called on to help with other things in the department from time to time. That seemed reasonable, as did the discussion about flexible hours - the job was advertised as 30 hours per week, but up to a maximum of 37.5 hours per week, depending on workload - even perhaps with an occasional Saturday. I was told that the offices were operational between 8.00am and 8.00pm, but I'd be working as required. My hours and starting time would vary according to need. That seemed fine. I was rather taken by Gandalf of Excel and was pretty sure that we'd work well together - plus, the project was interesting.
I had a second interview. I presented my credentials and a letter praising me to the skies for my help in running a similar special project with another organisation - at which, the interviewers were both shiny-eyed with glee. Again, it was stated that this was a six-month project...blah, blah, blah, assistant to Gandalf of Excel,,,blah, blah, blah...bit of help when needed with other things in the department...blah, blah, blah.
I was offered the job, packed my suitcase and moved back to Oakwood Towers.
Long story short; my contract, when it arrived, was for a permanent job, 37.5 hours a week, with fixed hours starting at 8.00am. I spoke to Personnel. Told them the contract was inaccurate - mentioned the 30-hour bit, focus of job, fixed term contract stuff. Oh, no, says Personnel bunny - it's always been 37.5 hours, but I'll arrange for a new contract to be drawn up, showing fixed term conditions. Doubting myself by this point, I went back to the advert and found that, mysteriously, the conditions had been changed - despite me having a copy to hand of the original job description. I've not yet signed the changed document.
In the last two weeks, the focus of the job has been not the project, but work in the department, with bits of the project fitted in around what is basically call-centre work. I don't play nicely with others. I worked for two days in a call centre once, and I swore I'd never do it again. If I'd wanted a call-centre job, I'd have applied for one in the first instance. I underwent the training in my first week, I did little bits of the project and LOTS of the other work. That was sort of okay - everyone needs to learn systems in a new job, and I will need the knowledge to do parts of the project later on. THEN it transpired, during a conversation with Gandalf, that she is actually only on secondment, covering a maternity leave post. She will be leaving on 29th April to go back to her substantive post, and I will be working with a completely new person, who I've not even met. This was NEVER mentioned, at either of the interviews. Had it been, I would not have taken the position. As I pointed out to Gandalf in our corridor conversation, I turned down another job offer to do this job, on the basis we'd discussed at TWO interviews - working with her, on a specific project, fixed term, and with bits of other work round the edges - not vice-versa.
This, in a nutshell, is the fucktangular mess of fuckwittery which now needs sorting out. To be fair, Gandalf was horrified that ''my expectations of the job have not been fulfilled'', and has taken steps to try to mitigate the disaster. There will be meetings, there will be discussions and hopefully, an accord will be reached. In the meantime, I am drifting about, neither one thing nor the other.
But I remain sanguine, which is as much a surprise to me as it is to most of the rest of the sharers of my world. I must be softening in my dotage...
In a nutshell, what is happening is that, in January, I applied for a job with a fixed term, six-month contract. I had my reasons for this - very specific reasons. When I got to the first interview I asked, again very specifically, why the job was vacant and I was told that the job wasn't vacant as such, that it was actually a completely new post, as an assistant to the person running a very interesting project, and the funding was in place for 6 months. At the end of 6 months, the project would either have worked or not, and we could then re-negotiate a longer stay, or I could leave. It was also specified that, as the assistant to the project, the project would be my main focus, but I might be called on to help with other things in the department from time to time. That seemed reasonable, as did the discussion about flexible hours - the job was advertised as 30 hours per week, but up to a maximum of 37.5 hours per week, depending on workload - even perhaps with an occasional Saturday. I was told that the offices were operational between 8.00am and 8.00pm, but I'd be working as required. My hours and starting time would vary according to need. That seemed fine. I was rather taken by Gandalf of Excel and was pretty sure that we'd work well together - plus, the project was interesting.
I had a second interview. I presented my credentials and a letter praising me to the skies for my help in running a similar special project with another organisation - at which, the interviewers were both shiny-eyed with glee. Again, it was stated that this was a six-month project...blah, blah, blah, assistant to Gandalf of Excel,,,blah, blah, blah...bit of help when needed with other things in the department...blah, blah, blah.
I was offered the job, packed my suitcase and moved back to Oakwood Towers.
Long story short; my contract, when it arrived, was for a permanent job, 37.5 hours a week, with fixed hours starting at 8.00am. I spoke to Personnel. Told them the contract was inaccurate - mentioned the 30-hour bit, focus of job, fixed term contract stuff. Oh, no, says Personnel bunny - it's always been 37.5 hours, but I'll arrange for a new contract to be drawn up, showing fixed term conditions. Doubting myself by this point, I went back to the advert and found that, mysteriously, the conditions had been changed - despite me having a copy to hand of the original job description. I've not yet signed the changed document.
In the last two weeks, the focus of the job has been not the project, but work in the department, with bits of the project fitted in around what is basically call-centre work. I don't play nicely with others. I worked for two days in a call centre once, and I swore I'd never do it again. If I'd wanted a call-centre job, I'd have applied for one in the first instance. I underwent the training in my first week, I did little bits of the project and LOTS of the other work. That was sort of okay - everyone needs to learn systems in a new job, and I will need the knowledge to do parts of the project later on. THEN it transpired, during a conversation with Gandalf, that she is actually only on secondment, covering a maternity leave post. She will be leaving on 29th April to go back to her substantive post, and I will be working with a completely new person, who I've not even met. This was NEVER mentioned, at either of the interviews. Had it been, I would not have taken the position. As I pointed out to Gandalf in our corridor conversation, I turned down another job offer to do this job, on the basis we'd discussed at TWO interviews - working with her, on a specific project, fixed term, and with bits of other work round the edges - not vice-versa.
This, in a nutshell, is the fucktangular mess of fuckwittery which now needs sorting out. To be fair, Gandalf was horrified that ''my expectations of the job have not been fulfilled'', and has taken steps to try to mitigate the disaster. There will be meetings, there will be discussions and hopefully, an accord will be reached. In the meantime, I am drifting about, neither one thing nor the other.
But I remain sanguine, which is as much a surprise to me as it is to most of the rest of the sharers of my world. I must be softening in my dotage...
Thursday 4 April 2019
A Brompton, please. Ice and a slice...
I learnt today about the so-called ''Brompton Cocktail''. It's powerful, it's illegal and its deployment is probably obsolete now (thanks for that, Doctor Shipman) but I would willingly have supped one down this afternoon. There is fuckwittery afoot, fuckwittery of a fucktangular nature, and which I can't go into detail about until after someone has had a chance to try and sort it out. That may be tomorrow, it may be on Monday, but let's just say...there was A MEETING about it in the ''break-out'' area...I am not in trouble, nor am I at fault - no worries on that score.
In other news, my delightful deskmate has been at it again. She arrived at 9.30. She played with her phone, she wandered about with her bucket of coffee and a cookie. She checked her emails. She flipped through the pages of the mysterious ''blue file'', which sits on her desk and, like her fan, may not be moved, touched or even glanced at - unless you're her.
Then she chowed down on:
A box of mini wheats. A whole one. Probably for the fibre.
A pint of milk.
A mug of tea.
These were accompanied by the first can of a four-pack of Fanta.
Two donuts.
A bar of chocolate.
Two tomato cup-a-soups
A packet of chocolate Hobnobs.
Another can of Fanta and a cup of coffee.
A foot-long sub from Subway. The one with the meatballs and cheese and gallons of tomato sauce. The meatball Marinara?
A big bag of Haribo Tangfastic
A bag of cheese Doritos
Another can of Fanta
A KitKat
Two bags of crisps.
A can of Fanta
A Plate of cake - someone was leaving. Everyone else had a slice of something. She came back to the desk with a paper plate, piled high. There were LOTS of cakes. Lots and lots. She had one of each, as far as I could see.
She left at 3pm. I'm not sure she'd done anything constructive, except emptying her carrier bag of food, and eating cake. She had, however, at 30-minute intervals, rummaged about under her clothes and sprayed herself with deodorant. It doesn't work. She actually reeks, and it's really not pleasant. We all know what a grubby armpit smells like. Yes, like that, but with overtones of something chemically floral - like the green water in the bottom of a vase after the bouquet has died. She's off for ten days now. Perhaps I'm missing something. People keep coming to her desk and asking her, in quiet tones, and with their heads cocked to one side, ''You okay today, (insert name here)?''. She usually says, through a mouthful of something, that she's hot. Sometimes, she's tired. Sometimes, she's both. Other than that, she doesn't say anything much.
That's probably for the best.
There are a LOT of weirdos in this office. I'm not sure where I fit in...
In other news, my delightful deskmate has been at it again. She arrived at 9.30. She played with her phone, she wandered about with her bucket of coffee and a cookie. She checked her emails. She flipped through the pages of the mysterious ''blue file'', which sits on her desk and, like her fan, may not be moved, touched or even glanced at - unless you're her.
Then she chowed down on:
A box of mini wheats. A whole one. Probably for the fibre.
A pint of milk.
A mug of tea.
These were accompanied by the first can of a four-pack of Fanta.
Two donuts.
A bar of chocolate.
Two tomato cup-a-soups
A packet of chocolate Hobnobs.
Another can of Fanta and a cup of coffee.
A foot-long sub from Subway. The one with the meatballs and cheese and gallons of tomato sauce. The meatball Marinara?
A big bag of Haribo Tangfastic
A bag of cheese Doritos
Another can of Fanta
A KitKat
Two bags of crisps.
A can of Fanta
A Plate of cake - someone was leaving. Everyone else had a slice of something. She came back to the desk with a paper plate, piled high. There were LOTS of cakes. Lots and lots. She had one of each, as far as I could see.
She left at 3pm. I'm not sure she'd done anything constructive, except emptying her carrier bag of food, and eating cake. She had, however, at 30-minute intervals, rummaged about under her clothes and sprayed herself with deodorant. It doesn't work. She actually reeks, and it's really not pleasant. We all know what a grubby armpit smells like. Yes, like that, but with overtones of something chemically floral - like the green water in the bottom of a vase after the bouquet has died. She's off for ten days now. Perhaps I'm missing something. People keep coming to her desk and asking her, in quiet tones, and with their heads cocked to one side, ''You okay today, (insert name here)?''. She usually says, through a mouthful of something, that she's hot. Sometimes, she's tired. Sometimes, she's both. Other than that, she doesn't say anything much.
That's probably for the best.
There are a LOT of weirdos in this office. I'm not sure where I fit in...
Wednesday 3 April 2019
Not ''fan''...tastic...
An entire packet of breakfast cereal - from new. Some dry, and the rest with the best part of a pint of milk.
A double pack of jam doughnuts.
A very large coffee from the concession in the foyer.
A double pack of Bounty bars
A pack of Matzo crackers - not an individual pack, an entire box.
A triple pack of sandwiches - deep-fill variety. The pack illustration showed some sort of greenery, so perhaps that counted as one of her five-a-day.
Two bags of crisps.
Another double pack of Bounty bars
An entire six-pack of double-finger KitKats
A bag of crisps
Four sachets of tomato cup-a-soup
A very large coffee from the concession in the foyer.
The person who ate EVERY SINGLE ITEM ON THAT LIST was sitting beside me in the office today. She arrived after 9.00am, and her first words were ''I'm really tired. Where have you put my fan?'' I had no idea what she was talking about, but it transpired that she thought I'd deprived her of her electric fan. Eventually, the fan came to light. It had been put under the desk - presumably by the evening staff. Cue small hissy fit on the subject of thoughtless people, because she ''really can't do without my fan''. By now, it was 10.am. She hadn't done any work at all. She'd had breakfast, hunted for the fan, and wandered about with one of her doughnuts and her bucket of coffee.
The fan finally went on - on the highest setting. Me, being understanding about ''women of a certain age'', said nothing. I wanted her to feel comfy.
Eventually, still moaning about how tired she was, she sat down and did some desultory tapping on the keyboard for about a minute. Then she got up and wandered about a bit more. Sat down again. Tapped. Got up. Had a chat with someone in another department. Ate stuff. All on repeat. By this time, the air around the two desks was actually frigid - the fan was pointed directly at me, and I was getting quite uncomfortable. Plus, every time I tried to scan something, the papers blew straight out of the top of the scanner. When she returned from one of her trips, I leaned over. ''Hi'', says I (and this is verbatim) ''Without making yourself uncomfortable in any way, as I know what being hot can be like, would it be possible for you to angle the fan just a little bit, please, just so that it's not blowing directly across both desks?''
Sweet baby Jeebus, you'd have thought I'd asked her to hand over her food stash.
I got harangued about ''not understanding'', about how people are ''always hiding her fan'', about the ''special permission'' she has to use the fan because ''she needs it''. Oh, and she was also ''really, REALLY tired''. Then she moved the fan about an inch to the right. It was still blowing icy air across both desks and down my neck, but at least I could use the scanner without everything blowing out of the hopper. Then the huffing started. Then the theatrical blowing out of air, then fanning herself with a folder - because she was ''too hot'', even though the fan was still fully on. Anyone who came within earshot heard about it. This, along with the eating, went on until 2.30pm, when she left. Before she left, she swept a load of used staples off her desk and straight onto the floor. She didn't even turn the fan off.
Pretty sure the two of us are not going to be making friends with each other any time soon. Today has not been a good day.
Butterball went home sick. Unfortunately, she has seen fit to share her germs with several of her colleagues (me included). Did I say today has not been a good day?
I chipped one of my back teeth whilst eating an oatcake. Good day? Nope. Not today. Not feeling the love...
A double pack of jam doughnuts.
A very large coffee from the concession in the foyer.
A double pack of Bounty bars
A pack of Matzo crackers - not an individual pack, an entire box.
A triple pack of sandwiches - deep-fill variety. The pack illustration showed some sort of greenery, so perhaps that counted as one of her five-a-day.
Two bags of crisps.
Another double pack of Bounty bars
An entire six-pack of double-finger KitKats
A bag of crisps
Four sachets of tomato cup-a-soup
A very large coffee from the concession in the foyer.
The person who ate EVERY SINGLE ITEM ON THAT LIST was sitting beside me in the office today. She arrived after 9.00am, and her first words were ''I'm really tired. Where have you put my fan?'' I had no idea what she was talking about, but it transpired that she thought I'd deprived her of her electric fan. Eventually, the fan came to light. It had been put under the desk - presumably by the evening staff. Cue small hissy fit on the subject of thoughtless people, because she ''really can't do without my fan''. By now, it was 10.am. She hadn't done any work at all. She'd had breakfast, hunted for the fan, and wandered about with one of her doughnuts and her bucket of coffee.
The fan finally went on - on the highest setting. Me, being understanding about ''women of a certain age'', said nothing. I wanted her to feel comfy.
Eventually, still moaning about how tired she was, she sat down and did some desultory tapping on the keyboard for about a minute. Then she got up and wandered about a bit more. Sat down again. Tapped. Got up. Had a chat with someone in another department. Ate stuff. All on repeat. By this time, the air around the two desks was actually frigid - the fan was pointed directly at me, and I was getting quite uncomfortable. Plus, every time I tried to scan something, the papers blew straight out of the top of the scanner. When she returned from one of her trips, I leaned over. ''Hi'', says I (and this is verbatim) ''Without making yourself uncomfortable in any way, as I know what being hot can be like, would it be possible for you to angle the fan just a little bit, please, just so that it's not blowing directly across both desks?''
Sweet baby Jeebus, you'd have thought I'd asked her to hand over her food stash.
I got harangued about ''not understanding'', about how people are ''always hiding her fan'', about the ''special permission'' she has to use the fan because ''she needs it''. Oh, and she was also ''really, REALLY tired''. Then she moved the fan about an inch to the right. It was still blowing icy air across both desks and down my neck, but at least I could use the scanner without everything blowing out of the hopper. Then the huffing started. Then the theatrical blowing out of air, then fanning herself with a folder - because she was ''too hot'', even though the fan was still fully on. Anyone who came within earshot heard about it. This, along with the eating, went on until 2.30pm, when she left. Before she left, she swept a load of used staples off her desk and straight onto the floor. She didn't even turn the fan off.
Pretty sure the two of us are not going to be making friends with each other any time soon. Today has not been a good day.
Butterball went home sick. Unfortunately, she has seen fit to share her germs with several of her colleagues (me included). Did I say today has not been a good day?
I chipped one of my back teeth whilst eating an oatcake. Good day? Nope. Not today. Not feeling the love...
Tuesday 2 April 2019
By all the Gods...
Today, having spent time with Gandalf of Excel, I'm feeling a lot more positive about my new role. The more work I can take on with the project, the less involvement I'll need to have with Butterball. This thought fills me with joy - as does the fact that April is going to be a very short month, what with Easter breaks and training days. There are a LOT of training days at Fuckwittery Inc.. This may be why there's not a lot of actual work being done.
And then, courtesy of The Spectator, this...
On 29th March 845, Ragnar Lothbrok sailed up the Seine and successfully invaded Paris, not leaving until he'd been paid a ransom of some 2000 kilos of silver and gold by Charles the Bald, the king of West Frankia.
On 29th March 1461, in their struggle to control the English throne, the Yorkist forces successfully routed the Lancastrians at the Battle of Towton.
However, on 29th March 2019, another ''event of historic importance'' didn't go ahead as anticipated, despite two years of planning - for which mercy, applause all round - but it's getting tiresome now. Obviously, the leaders of yore were made of sterner stuff and just got on with making shit actually happen, one way or the other. I'll bet Ragnar didn't gather his Vikings together beforehand and have vote upon vote upon vote trying to decide how best to get CtheB to capitulate. He just called on Odin and waded in whirling his axes then, 600 years later, with God on his side and 10,000 fewer men than his rival, Edward of York just spanked Henry VI's forces into submission. One way or another, someone has to take charge of this current mess. Come back, Rag and Ted. We need you!
And then, courtesy of The Spectator, this...
On 29th March 845, Ragnar Lothbrok sailed up the Seine and successfully invaded Paris, not leaving until he'd been paid a ransom of some 2000 kilos of silver and gold by Charles the Bald, the king of West Frankia.
On 29th March 1461, in their struggle to control the English throne, the Yorkist forces successfully routed the Lancastrians at the Battle of Towton.
However, on 29th March 2019, another ''event of historic importance'' didn't go ahead as anticipated, despite two years of planning - for which mercy, applause all round - but it's getting tiresome now. Obviously, the leaders of yore were made of sterner stuff and just got on with making shit actually happen, one way or the other. I'll bet Ragnar didn't gather his Vikings together beforehand and have vote upon vote upon vote trying to decide how best to get CtheB to capitulate. He just called on Odin and waded in whirling his axes then, 600 years later, with God on his side and 10,000 fewer men than his rival, Edward of York just spanked Henry VI's forces into submission. One way or another, someone has to take charge of this current mess. Come back, Rag and Ted. We need you!
Monday 1 April 2019
A little of this, a little of that...
After a week in my new (temporary) life, I have observed the following:
1. I can't drink the water here. It makes me very, VERY poorly indeed, even when filtered. Poorly to the point of weeping, in actual fact. Immensely painful stomach cramps, huge bloating and, well...''lavatory issues'', over which we shall gloss. Lord and Lady Oakwood have therefore purchased epic quantities of Mr Lidl's finest spring water for me. It's being stored in the understairs cupboard, which now resembles nothing less than a ''prepper's'' hoard against the possibility of a major apocalyptic event, with or without zombies/solar flare/rogue biological agent. I'm trying to ignore the plastic waste involved.
2. Cities (even the outskirts) are HOT. I miss the sea breezes at home.
3. Offices are HOT, even with the windows open. The only breeze comes from the helicopters landing on the pad outside, at which times all paperwork and loose items must be firmly clamped to the desks, and people go a bit deaf from the blinds all clattering together.
4. Ladies of a certain age, when dragging a wheely suitcase (however small) from home, need a minimum of 15 minutes after arrival at destination (office) to cool down and stop sweating. This is true even on cool days.
5. The full-length mirrors in the office loos make even the most willowy of sylph-like creatures appear 5 stone heavier, 3 foot wider and 2 foot shorter than they actually are in real life. Think what it does for the chunkier among us. It's like being in the Hall of Mirrors at the fairground...
6. I hate wearing ''office'' clothes. My new, sensible grey trousers, whilst elegantly cut and suitably well-fitting, make me very unhappy. The brief was ''no jeans, relaxed office clothes, no strappy or low-cut tops or tee-shirts''. This week, I've bent the rules a bit and I'm wearing MY version of office clothes - dark brown fine needlecord drainpipe-cut trousers, black suede ankle boots, and, today, a tomato-red Ben de Lisi top. No-one commented or sent me home, so I can only assume that's acceptable. What can they do if not? Put me in detention for uniform infraction? I will not dress by George at Asda or the Tesco equivalent, which is what seems to be the default setting for ''office'' clothes here. Tomorrow, it's the same trousers, topped off with a rather nice Phase Eight black, bat-wing sleeve tunic. No surrender!
7. The office is large, but has too many staff for the space, too few chairs for the staff and too few scanners to cover the amount of work required. Everyone is permanently moving about, trying to find somewhere to sit. This also makes a mockery of Health and Safety training, as everyone spends inordinate lengths of time moving chairs and scanners round the office. Both are heavy, and very cumbersome to move.
8. Everyone spends the whole morning scarfing down sugary drinks and snacks, and then they wonder why they are all slumping by 2pm. So they scarf down some more, then ask each other for paracetamol to counteract the headaches they've given themselves. Seriously. Every section has a table full of mini-bites of this, and tubs of that, boxes of chocolates, bags of crisps and cans of pop. The two large fridges are full of Slimming World microwave meals. It's like working in a mini branch of Tesco. I've not seen anyone eat a piece of fruit, or drink the chilled water that's always available - except me.
9. On the plus side, though, the League of Fiends guys come through with a trolley on Friday afternoons - more sweeties, pop and, bizarrely, magazines. This is newsworthy because the two guys who push the trolley round have music playing, and did their whole stint with us to the strains of ''Sweet Child of Mine'' - which the older of the two sang along to at the top of his voice, in tune and with great skill. He was Awesome. They might just turn out to be the highlight of the working week...
Thursday 28 March 2019
One week down...
Finally, I'm partly legit.
Security came through with my pass - so now I can actually access the office without banging on the door and hoping someone will break the rules and come to let me in. Still don't have my humungous national database card, or any of the correct permissions/desktop icons to enable me to do my job, but at least I can be in the office and not left out in the corridor.
My contract is being re-drafted to reflect my actual job/hours/conditions, my pre-planned days off have been authorised (COVEN OUTING IS A GO!!!), my badge is being re-made to show my correct job title - so that's all good.
Also what's good is, if today is anything to go by, at the end of the contract I should be an Excel wizard. The project involves the use of some really complicated stuff, involving pivots and massive amounts of formulae, among other things. I'm determined to make my self-imposed exile count, so I'm soaking up the opportunities as they present themselves. The person I'm working with is the Gandalf of Excel - and a VERY good teacher. She's 22 and she doesn't, unlike the Butterball, patronise. She's also not an eater of mug pasta with puke sauce. This pleases me greatly.
I really think, all fuckwittery aside, that this was a good move for me - although I AM looking forward to going home tomorrow!
Security came through with my pass - so now I can actually access the office without banging on the door and hoping someone will break the rules and come to let me in. Still don't have my humungous national database card, or any of the correct permissions/desktop icons to enable me to do my job, but at least I can be in the office and not left out in the corridor.
My contract is being re-drafted to reflect my actual job/hours/conditions, my pre-planned days off have been authorised (COVEN OUTING IS A GO!!!), my badge is being re-made to show my correct job title - so that's all good.
Also what's good is, if today is anything to go by, at the end of the contract I should be an Excel wizard. The project involves the use of some really complicated stuff, involving pivots and massive amounts of formulae, among other things. I'm determined to make my self-imposed exile count, so I'm soaking up the opportunities as they present themselves. The person I'm working with is the Gandalf of Excel - and a VERY good teacher. She's 22 and she doesn't, unlike the Butterball, patronise. She's also not an eater of mug pasta with puke sauce. This pleases me greatly.
I really think, all fuckwittery aside, that this was a good move for me - although I AM looking forward to going home tomorrow!
Wednesday 27 March 2019
You shall not pass!
Today's fuckwittery;
The special key passes I need to give me unfettered access to a humungous national data base are still being processed, despite the request being sent yesterday morning - with the correct authorisation. Begs the question - they knew I was starting on 26th, why were the passes only requested yesterday?
I still have no personal log in or passwords, despite the request being sent on Monday, when I was being talked at in the crematorium room. Again, me coming to the office to start work shouldn't have come as any sort of surprise..
The bank staff blokeys who started in the same department yesterday already have EVERYTHING they need. They are receiving the same training as me, but they can do theirs in real time on a live system.
My photo ID badge was taken by security yesterday evening so that they could, overnight, encode me a door entry key for the office. This process should take around 12 hours, and I dropped mine off at 5pm yesterday. Wearing the correct badge is mandatory, as is having the correct entry card for the swipey door entry thing in the corridor, next to the hand sanitiser thing. I have now, only the plastic shell of mine and a lanyard. I have to keep the shell tucked down inside my clothes, with just the lanyard showing. God knows what will happen if I'm challenged. Other staff are not permitted to open the office door for a colleague - we all have to use the key card. The new card was supposed to be coded and issued within about 12 hours - Security have now had it for 24 and counting, and I was told they were too busy overnight to do it, so I might not even get it tomorrow. Not sure at all how busy hospital security people can be, tbh. Obviously too busy to stick a card in to a coding machine and press a button. They could do that while the kettle's boiling for their evening cuppa...or while they're stuffing down a pie.
I STILL haven't signed my contract or been able to speak to the right people about it, so I still haven't sorted out the contract hours discrepancy, nor the discrepancies between my paperwork and my badge/job title/DBS certificate. Apart from that, I did actually do some work today, buoyed up by some jelly sweets and coconut biscuits brought in by someone who'd been on holiday and whose name I've already forgotten. I think she's called Fossi or something.
The child who is teaching me is a little patronising butterball, with a voice like a cheesewire. She seems to live on low-fat toffee yoghurt and Belvita biscuits. In fact, every time I walked past her desk, she was stuffing her face with something. AND for lunch, she had a macaroni cheese mug shot, which smelled of puke. I could still smell it when I left at 5pm. If she told me once that she went to uni, and how much teaching experience she had, she told me fifty times. She's only about 25, if she's that. How much experience can she have had of anything? Still, I'm biting my tongue. i know I don't play well with others, so it's my mission to improve that - at least until the end of the contract. I thanked her prettily for helping me today. I shall probably do it again tomorrow, too.
Officially, I STILL don't ''know'' where the ''facilities'' are. As this fact is something that I am required to ''sign off'' on my training portfolio - presumably after being officially taken there - I'm not quite sure what to make of that.
On the plus side, though, the viburnum is fragrantly blooming out along the roadside, and Mum made faggots, peas and mash for supper for me and dad. I'm cooking tomorrow, in lieu of paying rent.
The special key passes I need to give me unfettered access to a humungous national data base are still being processed, despite the request being sent yesterday morning - with the correct authorisation. Begs the question - they knew I was starting on 26th, why were the passes only requested yesterday?
I still have no personal log in or passwords, despite the request being sent on Monday, when I was being talked at in the crematorium room. Again, me coming to the office to start work shouldn't have come as any sort of surprise..
The bank staff blokeys who started in the same department yesterday already have EVERYTHING they need. They are receiving the same training as me, but they can do theirs in real time on a live system.
My photo ID badge was taken by security yesterday evening so that they could, overnight, encode me a door entry key for the office. This process should take around 12 hours, and I dropped mine off at 5pm yesterday. Wearing the correct badge is mandatory, as is having the correct entry card for the swipey door entry thing in the corridor, next to the hand sanitiser thing. I have now, only the plastic shell of mine and a lanyard. I have to keep the shell tucked down inside my clothes, with just the lanyard showing. God knows what will happen if I'm challenged. Other staff are not permitted to open the office door for a colleague - we all have to use the key card. The new card was supposed to be coded and issued within about 12 hours - Security have now had it for 24 and counting, and I was told they were too busy overnight to do it, so I might not even get it tomorrow. Not sure at all how busy hospital security people can be, tbh. Obviously too busy to stick a card in to a coding machine and press a button. They could do that while the kettle's boiling for their evening cuppa...or while they're stuffing down a pie.
I STILL haven't signed my contract or been able to speak to the right people about it, so I still haven't sorted out the contract hours discrepancy, nor the discrepancies between my paperwork and my badge/job title/DBS certificate. Apart from that, I did actually do some work today, buoyed up by some jelly sweets and coconut biscuits brought in by someone who'd been on holiday and whose name I've already forgotten. I think she's called Fossi or something.
The child who is teaching me is a little patronising butterball, with a voice like a cheesewire. She seems to live on low-fat toffee yoghurt and Belvita biscuits. In fact, every time I walked past her desk, she was stuffing her face with something. AND for lunch, she had a macaroni cheese mug shot, which smelled of puke. I could still smell it when I left at 5pm. If she told me once that she went to uni, and how much teaching experience she had, she told me fifty times. She's only about 25, if she's that. How much experience can she have had of anything? Still, I'm biting my tongue. i know I don't play well with others, so it's my mission to improve that - at least until the end of the contract. I thanked her prettily for helping me today. I shall probably do it again tomorrow, too.
Officially, I STILL don't ''know'' where the ''facilities'' are. As this fact is something that I am required to ''sign off'' on my training portfolio - presumably after being officially taken there - I'm not quite sure what to make of that.
On the plus side, though, the viburnum is fragrantly blooming out along the roadside, and Mum made faggots, peas and mash for supper for me and dad. I'm cooking tomorrow, in lieu of paying rent.
Tuesday 26 March 2019
Learning about E...
E learning. The art of staring at a computer screen for up to seven hours on two days, whilst trawling through multiple choice exercises, clicking here, adding information there, reading screeds and screeds of information and, finally, after you've successfully completed your seven hours of E learning in front of a screen, being made to book to go on another two mandatory seven hour ''face-to-face'' courses on EXACTLY THE SAME SUBJECTS...that's what they do to you at Fuckwittery Inc..
Yesterday, a morning in a room resembling nothing less than a crematorium chapel, hung with grey, pleated floor-to-ceiling curtains setting off the fake wood walls and ripe with the smell of new carpet and corporate upholstery, we listened, politely, to talks on governance, spiritual welfare, hand-washing, charity involvement, Trust values, the Client Experience. A short break for some tea and a pack of biscuits whilst being bombarded on all sides by Union reps, academic librarians, charity chuggers. In the afternoon, in an airless room in the very bowels of the building, nine modules (each module containing up to five sub-modules) of E learning to complete; fire safety, health and safety, infection control, corporate governance, equal opportunities, data protection, child protection and preventing radicalisation. We even learnt how to wash our hands.
Lots of information, probably all of it useful to someone in the room, but certainly not me. I'm not a clinician - most of the modules were skewed that way. I'm not even going to be having patient contact.
I thought, as I stumbled out into the sunshine at 4pm, that that was it. Tomorrow (which was today), I would be starting my new job.
Nope. Today, I spent another seven hours learning E. Different E, but E just the same. I had a list of modules to complete. There were seven. Within those seven, the modules were LEGION. I lost count, but I practically filled a notebook with aide memoires...
Tomorrow, I have an orientation day. Perhaps, tomorrow, I'll find out who my colleagues are going to be, and where my desk is, and where the canteen might be, and where the loos are, and where I get a lanyard for my ID badge. Or perhaps not. Maybe there will just be more Es to learn. How many more Es can there be to learn? I'm only in post for six months...
Yesterday, a morning in a room resembling nothing less than a crematorium chapel, hung with grey, pleated floor-to-ceiling curtains setting off the fake wood walls and ripe with the smell of new carpet and corporate upholstery, we listened, politely, to talks on governance, spiritual welfare, hand-washing, charity involvement, Trust values, the Client Experience. A short break for some tea and a pack of biscuits whilst being bombarded on all sides by Union reps, academic librarians, charity chuggers. In the afternoon, in an airless room in the very bowels of the building, nine modules (each module containing up to five sub-modules) of E learning to complete; fire safety, health and safety, infection control, corporate governance, equal opportunities, data protection, child protection and preventing radicalisation. We even learnt how to wash our hands.
Lots of information, probably all of it useful to someone in the room, but certainly not me. I'm not a clinician - most of the modules were skewed that way. I'm not even going to be having patient contact.
I thought, as I stumbled out into the sunshine at 4pm, that that was it. Tomorrow (which was today), I would be starting my new job.
Nope. Today, I spent another seven hours learning E. Different E, but E just the same. I had a list of modules to complete. There were seven. Within those seven, the modules were LEGION. I lost count, but I practically filled a notebook with aide memoires...
Tomorrow, I have an orientation day. Perhaps, tomorrow, I'll find out who my colleagues are going to be, and where my desk is, and where the canteen might be, and where the loos are, and where I get a lanyard for my ID badge. Or perhaps not. Maybe there will just be more Es to learn. How many more Es can there be to learn? I'm only in post for six months...
Monday 25 March 2019
The Boomerang Kid...
Well, it's happened. At the ripe old age of...well, if you know me, you know how old I am...I have officially taken on a title more usually reserved for millennials. I am, for the next six months at least, that most sneered at of creatures; the ''boomerang kid''.
I'm back in my old bedroom at the family home.
It's a means to an end. Before anyone thinks I'm suddenly single for some reason, disabuse yourself, please. Mr A is safely still in my life, thank the gods, but remains in Sussex. After being shockingly and unceremoniously dumped by an employer last August (no notice, and after 6 years of employment), I've given up working for myself and have taken a rather nice job with Fuckwittery Inc.. It's only a 6 month contract, but none the worse for that. However, it's full-time and I didn't want to commute, so I've moved back in with my parents for the duration. I'll go home at weekends. Mr A is cool with it. He's already ''owned'' the bed and besides, it's not as though we're joined at the hip or anything. He's been without me before; I had a year studying at Leith's in London, a period working away in Bermuda, fourteen months in Belgium - and he's often worked away. It works for us. We look on the separations as a bit of a re-boot.
I'm not sure how it will pan out. It's odd being back. I have to get my head around having lived away from here for more years than I care to remember. I have to get used to being a (sort of) child again. I have to get past the idea that I feel I have to ask permission, or let people know why I am (or I'm not) doing things - don't get me wrong, it's certainly not expected, but it's still someone else's house and not mine. I have to get past the self-imposed guilt of not wanting to sit and watch television downstairs, keeping company. Do they care that I don't want to do that every night? Probably not, but it's an odd feeling. When I was considering taking the job, we did have a conversation about mutual expectations were I to move in - it was the grown-up thing to do, but I'm the eldest child and I still have that goody-goody sensible chip firmly embedded, despite my best efforts at prying it out of my psyche. I suppose it all comes down, in the end, to mutual respecting of space, and recognising that we all do things differently.
My parents are pretty cool. It'll be fine. And the lovely ''children'' next door are allowing me to pirate off their internet, which is an unexpected bonus. The modern age has not yet caught up with Lord and Lady Oakwood, and this house is normally a technology-free zone - although I do have a cunning plan to change that. We have lent the Old Folk a tablet -and my mission, which I have chosen to accept, is to get them confidently onto the bloody thing, and off the Cobbled Highway, by the time I return home in September. So mote it be...
So here I am, resurrecting the blog from my cosy (and rent-free-at-their-insistence) bedsit. Do please stop by from time to time...
I'm back in my old bedroom at the family home.
It's a means to an end. Before anyone thinks I'm suddenly single for some reason, disabuse yourself, please. Mr A is safely still in my life, thank the gods, but remains in Sussex. After being shockingly and unceremoniously dumped by an employer last August (no notice, and after 6 years of employment), I've given up working for myself and have taken a rather nice job with Fuckwittery Inc.. It's only a 6 month contract, but none the worse for that. However, it's full-time and I didn't want to commute, so I've moved back in with my parents for the duration. I'll go home at weekends. Mr A is cool with it. He's already ''owned'' the bed and besides, it's not as though we're joined at the hip or anything. He's been without me before; I had a year studying at Leith's in London, a period working away in Bermuda, fourteen months in Belgium - and he's often worked away. It works for us. We look on the separations as a bit of a re-boot.
I'm not sure how it will pan out. It's odd being back. I have to get my head around having lived away from here for more years than I care to remember. I have to get used to being a (sort of) child again. I have to get past the idea that I feel I have to ask permission, or let people know why I am (or I'm not) doing things - don't get me wrong, it's certainly not expected, but it's still someone else's house and not mine. I have to get past the self-imposed guilt of not wanting to sit and watch television downstairs, keeping company. Do they care that I don't want to do that every night? Probably not, but it's an odd feeling. When I was considering taking the job, we did have a conversation about mutual expectations were I to move in - it was the grown-up thing to do, but I'm the eldest child and I still have that goody-goody sensible chip firmly embedded, despite my best efforts at prying it out of my psyche. I suppose it all comes down, in the end, to mutual respecting of space, and recognising that we all do things differently.
My parents are pretty cool. It'll be fine. And the lovely ''children'' next door are allowing me to pirate off their internet, which is an unexpected bonus. The modern age has not yet caught up with Lord and Lady Oakwood, and this house is normally a technology-free zone - although I do have a cunning plan to change that. We have lent the Old Folk a tablet -and my mission, which I have chosen to accept, is to get them confidently onto the bloody thing, and off the Cobbled Highway, by the time I return home in September. So mote it be...
So here I am, resurrecting the blog from my cosy (and rent-free-at-their-insistence) bedsit. Do please stop by from time to time...
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