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.

...''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.

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.

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...

''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.

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...

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???