Fuck you I won't do what you tell me
What a distant cry life in offices is from the world of hope on offer to the celebrity big brother contestants. Germaine Greer has upped sticks and walked out with an anarchistic enthusiasm I crave in my temporary workplace. Sit down with the boss, tell them I've had enough and would like to pack my bags, then leave to write interesting comment pieces in the broadsheet newspapers and appear with Dermot O'Leary on a couch.
It used to be my ethos that it's not what you do, it's where you're at that counts. Hence why I spend my weekday daylight in front of a computer at a small voluntary organisation doing shitty work. For the last fifteen minutes I have been staring at the little red light on the office phone that shows me the line I need to use is occupied by my manager and her mate she just got back from India with. Occassionally, the boring silence is interspersed with orgasmic laughter coming from that manager's office, who has no desire to stop hogging the phone line and allow it to be used for proper cold-calling work.
So that leaves me redundant. Being the only temporary worker in the organisation, I have 18 days a year less holiday than everyone else, and also receive less pay than my peers. Today, the Chief Executive informed the union (every single member, through a mass e-mail) that they will not be recognised if they try to represent Iain Wilson's request for equal holiday, on account of my agency nature. To make matters worse, I sat through a union meeting (as a guest, because I'm not recognised by 'the man') that discussed a new regrading procedure for all employees. All employees, except the one who is on less money, holiday and security than his predecessor, and who is due to have their working week cut so as to prevent me earning enough to pay my rent. I have explained the predicament I am in to my colleagues, and told them I'm looking for new work and am quite unwilling to train a replacement. The boss's response, good luck. They can always find another temp. Is it too much to ask for unrequited love from the people I spend the majority of my time working for? Some sort of commitment that says they'll give me respectable money, even if I'm in a mood and not giving them everything they want. Particularly since they're a charity.
I look forward to leaving this depressing and demeaning episode behind. Alas, I have another few months of this left before I can afford to move on. In the meantime, the highlight of my days is working out my timetable for withdrawing from my small doses of antidepressant, so that I can become a fully fledged, non-temporary, member of society.
Has anyone got Dickens' Hard Times to lend me?
It used to be my ethos that it's not what you do, it's where you're at that counts. Hence why I spend my weekday daylight in front of a computer at a small voluntary organisation doing shitty work. For the last fifteen minutes I have been staring at the little red light on the office phone that shows me the line I need to use is occupied by my manager and her mate she just got back from India with. Occassionally, the boring silence is interspersed with orgasmic laughter coming from that manager's office, who has no desire to stop hogging the phone line and allow it to be used for proper cold-calling work.
So that leaves me redundant. Being the only temporary worker in the organisation, I have 18 days a year less holiday than everyone else, and also receive less pay than my peers. Today, the Chief Executive informed the union (every single member, through a mass e-mail) that they will not be recognised if they try to represent Iain Wilson's request for equal holiday, on account of my agency nature. To make matters worse, I sat through a union meeting (as a guest, because I'm not recognised by 'the man') that discussed a new regrading procedure for all employees. All employees, except the one who is on less money, holiday and security than his predecessor, and who is due to have their working week cut so as to prevent me earning enough to pay my rent. I have explained the predicament I am in to my colleagues, and told them I'm looking for new work and am quite unwilling to train a replacement. The boss's response, good luck. They can always find another temp. Is it too much to ask for unrequited love from the people I spend the majority of my time working for? Some sort of commitment that says they'll give me respectable money, even if I'm in a mood and not giving them everything they want. Particularly since they're a charity.
I look forward to leaving this depressing and demeaning episode behind. Alas, I have another few months of this left before I can afford to move on. In the meantime, the highlight of my days is working out my timetable for withdrawing from my small doses of antidepressant, so that I can become a fully fledged, non-temporary, member of society.
Has anyone got Dickens' Hard Times to lend me?
posted by Steve Harmison | 7:40 AM
4 Comments:
I have Hard Times. I will lend it to you when next you visit Brixton Towers.
I have 'Great Expectations', it is not what I hoped for. THIS JOKE WILL, ONE DAY, BE INCLUDED IN THE GARRETH TREHARNE MEMORIAL JOKE LIBRARY
I feel a bit bad that you have really aired your grievances and the only comments attached to this blog entry refer to your request for a book. So, to address the troublesome issues to which you refer may I share with you the fact that while your employers may not want you, us - your friends always will (except Wednesdays)
Cheers. Although I did only bear my pain to gain enough sympathy to get a Dickens book. Next week, read about my itchy t-shirt and request for Bruce Grobbelaar's autobiography, and the death of my whole family in a nasty lightning accident and request for The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
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