Where did you go to, my lovely

Any post you can start with a reference to a Peter Sarstedt lyric is a good one, surely? *

So what have I done in the intervening time?

I was living in a London suburb, working in another suburb. My world had shrank. Away from the cosmopolitan craziness of central London, I found myself with very little to write about.

Then I changed jobs. I went to work for one of the world's largest online retailers (don't describe them as a bookshop - they really don't like that). It was a contract position, but the HR person assured me that it was just the initial term and it would be renewed if things worked out. It turns out that their employment practices are just as dodgy as their tax arrangements - contrary to what I was told, contracts weren't ever renewed to avoid giving any employment rights.  So I spent months worrying about the job not being permanent - I also increased the account I was responsible for from £0.8 million to over £2.5 million. I didn't manage to secure a permanent job there and although I was told I could take another contract back there after a six month break, I started looking for something else.

In the middle of this, somewhat crazily for someone without a permanent job, we moved, buying a house in a village in Home Counties. It is lovely - I had no regrets in this. No longer having upstairs neighbours for one thing is a huge improvement.

Then I found a permanent job, back in a vaguely charitable field and back in central London. Not ideal when you no longer live in London, but I needed the money. And this is where I find myself now.  With an hour and half commute each way again each day, in a job that in ten months has managed to leave me physically exhausted and emotionally wrecked. It is a toxic environment that has shattered my self-confidence totally. 

Its been a tough year and I thought that returning to this blog, might give me a release for some of it. I don't want it to be just work-related moans, although that will undoubtedly be part of it as I don't have that much else going on.


*Not that I know any other Peter Sarstedt songs

Inauspicious Start to 2010

New Year’s Day, i woke up feeling dodgy. Not on account of the Cava consumed the night before, which was adequately absorbed by the copious nibbles. I was coming down with a cold. So once we got back from our jaunt to Exeter, I spent the next couple of days confined to the house.

Sniffles had cleared up sufficiently to go into work on Monday, determined to be a dynamic go-getter in 2010. I spent the morning reading emails, listening to colleagues grumble and trying to get warm. Then around lunchtime the electricity went off. It didn’t come back on, so we were sent home.

Today, I arrive at the office to find it is still in darkness. The rest of the building has their power back, but for some reason (unpaid bills?) not our office.

On the positive side, it is easing me back into the working routine, but foiling my plans to be dynamic.

I may be from the same town as the X Factor winner, but (part 2)

I will not be taking part in the karaoke at the office Christmas party on Monday.

I don't do singing. Even if I did do singing, it wouldn't be in front of my new colleagues, on a Monday lunchtime, stone cold sober. Equally, I'm not that keen on hearing my new colleagues sing on a Monday lunchtime stone cold sober.

Fish Wife

On a temporary basis, we have a third person sharing our office. For reasons that are too complicated/sensitive/dull/ridiculous to go into here, she is not allowed to do any work at the moment, but is still expected to come into the office each day. To fill her time, she talks a lot about not much and seems to be on an endless cycle of reapplying her lipstick, handcream and perfume. The frequent sprays of the latter in a small windowless room has left me with stinging red eyes, but I haven't said anything because since she is only there short-term I didn't see the point in offending her and I reasoned that there were worse smells than an over-powering headache inducing perfume. Today I was reminded of one.

This morning I saw a pack of smoked salmon on her desk. "Shouldn't that be in the fridge" I thought to myself on my way out of the office. Minutes later on my way back in, I saw the salmon was open and she was snacking on stripes of it.

It wasn't even 11am. Surely there are better things for a mid morning snack than fish? I'm biased because I don't like any fish or seafood, but I understand that others may enjoy it for lunch or as a meal. But surely not as a snack? Its like sharing an office with a seal.

Quite Evil?

I know I wasn't going to say too much about the new job (hence the prolonged silence) but this has been bugging me for a week now.



A group of us from work were having a coffee and somehow the conversation turned to friends we'd lost touch with and one woman came out with a tale that has shocked me.



She mentioned how she was back in touch with a friend she had fallen out with years ago and then went on to casually reveal the circumstances. The friend lives abroad, has never lived in the UK, but has a property here, so when she was diagnosed with cancer, a loophole allowed her to have treatment here, even though she had never lived permanently or paid taxes here. The woman from work revaled that she called the friend "an NHS tourist", and then reported her to the media, appearing herself in a television document about the loophole. She then said to us that the friend refused to appear in the documentary, which she sounded surprised at.

She finished this charming anecdote with the phrase "Oh yes, I can be quite evil".

Now I agree that is unfair and even immoral that this person came here for treatment when they could afford to pay for it elsewhere, but in reality, faced with a friend who could be dying, whose first thoughts are whether they should entitled to the live-saving treatment?

I'm keeping my distance from this woman, as if this is any sign of how she treats her friends, I hate to think what she would do to someone else.

War on Font

I realise there are plenty of more important things to be upset by, but over the last few weeks I've become increasingly annoyed, to the point of hatred, with the font Comic Sans.

I was determined not to gripe too much about my new job, but I seem to have landed in a company obsessed by this font. It is used unsparingly on posters, leaflets and websites. I'm going to make it my mission to eradicate it. But they aren't alone - it crops up everywhere, although thankfully Blogger doesn't offer it as an option.

I can only assume my company uses it because they think it suggests a fun, friendly and quirky nature. Let me disabuse them of those notions right now.

Do we really want to appear fun? I think not. How about ridding ourselves of the public-sector jargon-speak first?

Friendly? Certainly, but accessible is part of friendly, and the dreaded front isn't actually that easy to read, online or off.

Quirky? Again, we are hardly a quirky organisation, but Comic Sans is so ubiquitous, you distinguish yourself more by not using it. I understand we don't want to look too corporate, but there is a middle ground between that and looking like amateurs.

Personally, I'm rather a Tahoma kind of girl. Clear, easy to read, the thinking person's Arial.

And while I'm on, I'll be removing all of those exclamation marks too. We are not an over-excitable teenager on text.

Changes

Whereas before I took a train then a tube to work, now I take the bus. Two buses in fact.

This is just one of the changes involved in the change of jobs.

Where I was in the arts before, I'm now in the Voluntary & Community Sector.
Where I worked in central London before, I'm now on the outskirts
Where my job had a UK-wide remit before, I'm now working at a local level in one borough
Where I worked 10 to 6, I now work 9 to 5

Its a lot of change. I'm still exhausted by it all. I'm still not sure what to make of it.

On the plus side, I have a new health club and whilst I am missing my outdoor swimming, this place is clean and quiet.

A Proper Grown-Up Job

I start the new job tomorrow and to say I'm nervous would be an understatement. This is a Proper Grown-Up Job. A job with a 50 page business plan with "outcomes" and "deliverables" for the next 3 years with my job title next to them. I have targets I'm expected to achieve and I'm trying not to freak out about something I have to do in 2011.

Its a whole new sector, in a new location and in an office where I'm don't know where the kettle is located. In fact, I don't even know if they have a kettle.

But there may not be time for tea with all those deliverables to be delivered.

Exit Stage Left

I no longer work in the theatre industry. I imagined telling the company where they could stick their job, making a speech to set the record straight and dancing gleefully out of the office. But of course I didn't do any of that. I worked my notice as diligently as ever, mumbled my thanks at my leaving do and left quietly, still with some feelings of doubt and regret.

I'll miss a handful of people in the office and several more across the industry, plus a few other things that made the days bearable.

I'll miss the outdoor swimming, and despite the rocky start, I'll miss the "Bums, Tums and Thighs" class (I had farewell more teary with the instructor than with any of my colleagues).

I'll miss the smiling man who hands me the London Paper every night and the woman who sells the Big Issue.

I'll miss lunches from Food for Thought. I'll miss the shops, although my savings plan won't. I'll miss the journey to work that I can do without even thinking.

But I won't miss the job and I won't miss the department. And perhaps I will be able to re-enter somewhere down the line.

The Replacements

The advert has been placed to find my replacement and the applications are rolling in. Its not looking good. I don't think I'm irreplaceable. Far from it, I think my job could be done by a trained monkey, so long as that monkey was trained in databases, web editing and desktop publishing. Its just the quality of applications so far has been poor.


Shrewdly, my manager has asked for applications the old fashioned way, a CV and letter by post and the majority of applicants have fallen at this first hurdle by emailing their application, thus proving they are unable to follow simple instructions.


And it seems that the young generation can't write covering letters anymore. "Here is my CV" alone on a page is not a covering letter. At the other end of the spectrum, a rambling three page missive about what you did at university with no reference to the job offered, isn't the way to write a letter either. You don't start a business letter "Hello". And a letter starting "You must be sick of reading these letters by now" may make yours stand out from the crowd, but in the wrong way.


Then there are those who don't actually want the job, but are unemployed and have to prove they are looking for work. So we receive a CV that has been photocopied badly folded twenty times to fit in a miniscule envelope , accompanied by an unreadable handwritten letter - all of which reaks of smoke. Anyone familiar with Trainspotting will recognise this as the Spud school of job applications.


Some have written acceptable letters, but they've talked up their experience - when you read the CV "extensive" turns out to mean three months in one job. And where has this trend for quoting a colleague or former employer at the top of the CV come from? This has passed me by but I don't like it. One quoted a former colleague saying she was "a problem-solver" but on further investigation the company is something she started herself after college so the "colleague" was more than likely her best friend. Another gave pride of place to a quotation from a publisher saying she "was very naughty for leaving" that company.


There was also one from a recent graduate who admitted they didn't have the experience we are looking for, but was willing to work for £4k less than the starting salary "subject to a review after 3 months". I'm sure they would be willing to work for that - for someone with no experience of anything, that would be a pretty good starting salary in most industries and very well paid in the arts.


My favourite so far has been the one that began "I am ideal for this position. I am currently manager of a massage parlour" and then lists their duties in the parlour, starting with "operating the massage machines". I've been in this job nearly five years and have so far haven't seen the connection with massage.

Shortlisting will be difficult. Not because of the usual spiel about receiving over 100 applications it was a tough decision. It will be hard to find six decent candidates to pick from.

Escape from The Rut

I've been in The Rut for a long time. I've been bored and unchallenged, my mind was rotting. I filled up my time with "projects" to distract me, so I wouldn't dwell on The Rut too much. I'd made The Rut quite comfortable, made the best of it.

Then this week, I seem to have found a way out of The Rut. A new opportunity. A proper step in the right direction. Something challenging but perfectly possible.

I'm going to do it. I'm going to leave The Rut behind. But why don't I feel happier about it? Its the little things that make The Rut bearable that I'm worried about leaving behind. And that,strangely enough, I worked so hard to get into The Rut in the first place, that it feels like quitting to leave it behind.

Still it is all "subject to references" which is quite a bit thing when one of the problems with The Rut other people taking credit for things you've done. So I may not quite be out of The Rut yet.

Back in Black

Having made a real effort in recent years to not give in to my natural inclination to always wear black, I now find myself with a job that actually requires it.

I have a new job. Sort of.

I still have the old job, but I now have a new voluntary job as well (plus the bits of freelance stuff too - I'm not very good at doing nothing). As of the weekend, I have joined the 500 volunteer stewards at Shakespeare's Globe. It involves showing people to their seats, herding the crowds in the event of a fire and selling programmes, cushions, blankets and rain ponchos. And it requires me to wear black, which I now find that I have a lot less of in my wardrobe than I thought.

So far (after just two shifts), I really like it and am looking forward to going back next weekend. The thing with voluntary work is it is always much better than actual work, apart from the bit about not being paid.

Is it wrong...

that we have an important event at work, that has been causing untold amounts of stress and hassle, but I'm secretly looking forward to it because the conference centre provides excellent Danish pastries?

Of Mice and Men

The office mouse returned today.

He scurried across the floor from underneath my colleague's desk and came running towards me. When he reached my desk, he sat at the side of my chair, and remained there quietly. We co-existed happily side by side, there was no squealing from either of us. We were quite content.

Until a colleague tried to capture him with a teacup.

Wisely he ran off again. I miss him.

I know other people are disgusted by mice, but it was the closest I've come to having a pet since I've lived in London.

Lucky Heather

I’m accustomed to weaving my way between Big Issue sellers, Chuggers and Living Statues in my lunch hour, but recently their ranks have been joined by another group looking for money; Lucky Heather Sellers.

Whilst you might be moved to give money to the Big Issue sellers or the fundraisers (encouraging those living statues is inexcusable), I’ve yet to see anyone parting with their money to a Lucky Heather Seller. When I’ve been feeling particularly glum, I have contemplated it, wondering if that is what is wrong with my life, but I’ve never actually succumbed. Ever the rationalist, I realise that if I want to change my life, I have to do something more about it than purchase a dried up weed from a buxom woman who accosts me in the street. Luck does play a part in most successes, but I doubt this product comes with a guarantee.

So I’ve ruled out buying it. But what about selling it? Is this a profitable business? The outlay is presumably pretty small (you could pick plants growing in the wild for free), but it is labour intensive, hanging around the street all day haranguing passers-by. My haranguing skills aren’t up to much anyway. Another career change ruled out.

You Take the Low Road

and I'll take the train, and I'll be in Scotland before thee?

I'm off to Scotland for work today. I'm hoping I might see something beyond my hotel and the theatre foyer.

Then I'm heading south to the North which may be geographically impossible but makes sense to me. I'm there for my oldest friend's wedding, where once more I will a bridemaid.

Overheard Conversations No. 4

In the office today. I can see Colleague 1, but Colleague 2 is round a corner.

Colleague 1 (in an incredulous tone) "You bubble wrap your bananas?"
Colleague 2 (as if everyone does) "Of course I do"

And shifting from my seat, I see that Colleague 2 is indeed carefully wrapping her bananas in bubble wrap.

You Only Get What You Pay For

Scenes from a depressing Birmingham hotel.






What these pictures fail to convey is the uncomfortableness of a room without air conditioning on a hot night on a very busy and noisy street.

To the Midlands!

Such is the cyclical nature of my life and this blog that we’ve reached that time of year again for my annual jaunt to Birmingham. We are not staying the window-less hotel this time, but will be sampling another of Birmingham’s finest budget hotels.

I'm trying to muster some enthusiasm for it by calling it a jaunt, but a traipse would be more accurate. My schedule will be thus:

Train - Hotel - Food - Bed - Venue - Train

Back not soon enough.

I love the Southbank

Last week work involved a day working on the Southbank. I arrived far too early to go into my event, but I didn’t mind just ambling around because I love the Southbank. It is especially nice early in the morning when there aren’t too many people about.

I had my camera with me so decided I’d take a few photos. Of course, the views around there are really incredibly touristy. I couldn’t resist taking photographs of Big Ben and the London Eye. Much to my embarrassment, a man stopped me and asked if I wanted him to take a picture of me with the Houses of Parliament in the background. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I wasn’t a tourist, so I just said “No, thank you” in a way that I hope sounded like English wasn’t my first language (I’ve been accused of this before anyway) .


Lots of people hate the buildings on the Southbank. Prince Charles ranted about the National Theatre buildings. Admittedly, they aren't the prettiest. But I love them. I think it is possibly because my university (UEA) was designed by the same architect so it feels like home there amongst the Brutalist concrete structures.

I wish I worked there as I feel nothing bad could ever happen and I'd be happy to go to work everyday.