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.
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