The Meeting

It starts as usual. I’m already there, talking to her manager at his meeting table. We call her in, and she looks at me apprehensively, then to her manager, and then back to me. She sits down, head down, hands in her lap, looking at us nervously. I can tell she’s thinking “There’s the woman from HR. I wonder what’s going to happen to me now?”

There’s a tension in the air. Who will break the silence?

I start by smiling, and telling H that we’re now at the end of the first 4 weeks she’s been back to work. This is a review. How is it going? – I ask them both.

The nod and mutter. H says she feels frustrated, her manager says the same. They’re observing from different viewpoints, and I can tell that while their words are similar, their meanings are very different.

H is frustrated because she can never get to the bottom of the in-tray because she’s too busy. Her manager is frustrated because she never gets to the bottom of her in-tray because she’s wasted hours on pointless activities – mainly searching for items which aren’t there.

They’re both looking at me, both old enough to be my parents, pleading with me to sort it out – to tell them what is for the best. There’s no ageism in this room. They know I can help them, and they hang on my words.

I tease out the problems, make them air them. Lay them on the table and examine them closely.

But its early days. H isn’t back to full hours yet. Its all so new. We must give it enough time.

Both think the meeting went well. I come away feeling uneasy. They will part company, those two.

The manager hopes it will be soon.

H goes in search of folders, oblivious.

Still Alive

It occurred to me today that I hadn’t been on and blogged for a while.

But I’m still alive.

The nutters are keeping me busy!!

Like J, the chap who might have had inappropriate relations with a girl under 18 in his care…..

Or L, the lady who keeps falling asleep in class and not watching the disabled students when they’re pulling boiling kettles of water towards them by the cord…..

Or M, the lady who is just not able to master her job after 12 months of support.

Or K, the woman who doesn’t want to come to work anymore but would really like us to keep paying her for 6 years……

Oh it has been a wonderful few weeks………………

;o)

Chas & Dave at the 100 Club

Badger and I went to see Chas and Dave at the 100 club in Oxford Street, London on Friday night.

It was a proper cockney knees-up.

Brilliant!

A cut above the rest??!!

Apologies for the hairdressing puns, but today’s HR problem relates to a Hairdressing Salon I work with.

Cindy is around 40, and a junior member of the hairdressing hierarchy, but a valuable one, nonetheless.

Cindy is contracted to work 4 evenings a week, Monday to Thursday because they don’t open late on Friday. Her hours are between 4.30 and 9pm. Because Linsi was seconded to a sister-salon, Cindy was asked if she would mind doing two evenings and two mornings for a while, until Linsi came back. Cindy was happy to, so the Salon Manager got in a temporary person called Jan to cover the other two evenings.  

Sadly the sister-salon closed, and Linsi had to come back after about 9 months, putting Jan out of a job, and Cindy back to her 4 evenings a week. Jan was sad, but knew this was on the cards at some point, and went to find another job. Linsi went back to her job during the day, and Cindy was therefore required to revert to her old work pattern.

Except, in the 9 months, Cindy’s husband had changed jobs, leaving Cindy with a child-care problem on a Thursday evening. So what did Cindy do?

Did she find a babysitter? No

Did she start looking for another job? No

She came to her manager and demanded her work pattern remain at 2 evenings and 2 mornings a week.

Well, her manager told her she could not accomodate her in this work pattern any longer – as all the day work was covered, and Cindy’s contract was for 4 evenings a week, so that’s what she’d have to do.

So Cindy sulked and cried and stamped her feet because she said the hairdressing salon should be accomodating her personal needs because she’s got children………………………………………………….

So what do you make of that, aspiring HR managers???

What do you think my advice was?

A glimpse into the fog….

At a country fair on Sunday, I bumped into a man who smiled at me a familiar smile. Older, greyer, but still the same shape of a face I’d once known. I approached him, and spoke.

Spaniel, so it is you! How are you?

Oh, you know. I’m doing well, Ted.

Ted: Oh good. Settled down again now? Its been a while. Still working at the government building? 

Me: Oh yes, all is well. No, not working there any more, had a change now, working in London.

Ted: Oh good.

Me: Yes, and getting married again.

Ted: Oh, that’s such good news! 

Ted beams at me – he genuinely means it. He’s pleased for me.

Ted: Well, you’re both settling down again, then.

I glimpse into the fog, hoping to make out the shape of something that isn’t really there….

Me: How is BastardChris* these days? Still see him?

Ted: Oh yes – he’s me mate, you know that. I like him, he’s a friend. But I warned you, didn’t I? I asked you if you were sure….

I smile now and say ‘yes, yes you did. ‘ We both pause, thinking of memories. A time past.

Me: Where is he now?

Ted: In OldTown. He’s OK. Moving from business to business, here and there. (Ted chuckles). You know what he’s like. He’ll never change.

I smile again, a joyless smile, by way of reply. I want to know a little more, maybe, but looking out at the shapes in the mist, I’m not sure I want to see so clearly after all.  

Me: Its been about 5 years since I last saw him, you know. October ‘03. A long time.   

Ted: Yes, I suppose it must be. I saw your mother a while ago, She seemed as concerned about him doing OK as you seem to be.

I can do no more than smile. Wondering whether I am concerned about him or not. 

Ted: You know he’s an odd bloke. He’s just so daft, he needs someone equally daft to put up with him – and you weren’t daft enough.  

Me: Yes.

Ted: Well its been lovely to bump into you, Spaniel. Take care of yourself, and I’m so glad things are working out for you. I knew you just weren’t silly enough to put up with him. Congratulations on getting married again.

Me: Thanks Ted. You take care now.

Ted: Bye (he waves).

Me: Bye, then.

I stood, squinting slightly to see if I could make out anything more than I had already seen, and realised I could not. But then I don’t think I’m really that interested, after all.

When the fog lifted, there was nothing there. Nothing at all.

  *see Cast List.

Unbelievable

Today I found myself completley unable to express my true feelings, which is very unusual for me. I was so appalled and horrified, I just ran out of words to adequately express it.

See what you make of it.

Bianca works as a teaching assistant in a college. She is part of a team of people who work one to one with students in need of additional support because they have disabilities or particular special needs. Bianca is an ex-nurse, an asthmatic and suffers from some allergies already. Probably as a result of her work with patients over the years, Bianca had a severe allergic reaction a week or so ago while blowing up a party balloon, and was rushed into hospital, having difficulty in breathing. She had suffered an anaphylactic reaction to natural rubber (latex), and has been warned that she must carry her epi-pen (an auto-injector containing synthetic adrenaline) with her at all times. If she comes into contact with a latex or rubber item again, her body will dramatically react to the rubber and start to shut down within minutes as it goes into anaphylactic shock. She has been left in no doubt that the next reaction will kill her if she doesn’t receive the adrenaline in her epi-pen quickly – well before any ambulance is likely to arrive.    

When she returned to work, she explained to her colleagues what had happened, and that if this were to happen to her at work, she might need one of her colleagues to administer her epi-pen to her, if she was unable to do it for herself. Bianca’s colleagues, because of the students they work with, have all been trained to administer an epi-pen in an emergency. Bianca felt safe because of the sheer volume of people trained to respond in an emergency all around her……

Except…..

Except her colleagues told her they would not be prepared to administer it to her because she was not a student.

 

 I am truly speechless.

The drama of Diane

Diane is 59 years old, and she suffers from anxiety and depression. I would be sympathetic for most people, but Diane isn’t most people. She had 2 years off work and would never have come back except she thought she might get a few quid if she made a big fuss.

So she made a big fuss, hoping that during the restructure the company had forgotten about her and would pay her to go away rather than make room for her. Except the company did make room for her, and welcomed her back (albeit slightly reluctantly, since they knew she’d be trouble).

Since then, Diane has behaved like a spoiled child, stamping her feet and making a scene wherever possible. Despite coming back in a supervisory role, she tried not to do her job, and got away with it. The company allowed her to continue with her therapy appointments, and time off to go line-dancing (since it helped her stress-levels).

Finally, her manager had had enough and started to make her come in on time, manage her staff and get on with her job.

She threw a strop, and cried and made a fuss and went off sick.

She didn’t want to see a doctor from Occupational Health, so we send him to her house.

He told us she would be ok to go back to work if only the relationship with her line manager could be resolved.

That’s where I came in.

I went to see this pathetic little slip of a woman, hiding behind her arms, peering out with wide, anxious eyes at me. Scratching at her neck, worrying and wringing her hands.

Oh dear. Said I. This is terrible. I think we need to take your grievance further so we can sort out the problems with your line manager and get you back to work.

Oh no, said her union representative.

We just want £150,000 instead.

Why? Said I.

Because she doesn’t want to go back to work, and her manager is making her do things she doesn’t like.

What, her job, you mean?

Yes, but she can’t do it.

No kidding.

Oh well, we’ll see, say I.

So I ask Diane about the work she used to do, many years ago in Finance, when things were better.

Her arms came down to her lap, she looked at me and smiled, and chatted away like a grown up for the first time in the meeting.

Ill?

Ill my arse.

Pure Joy

I’ve just returned from a weekend at V2008.

I have learned about MDMA or Methylenedioxymethamphetamine (Methylene-dioxy-meth-amphetamine), otherwise known as Ecstasy.

I’ve heard of Ecstasy, but when the girl in the tutu with the unequal pupils told me she loved me and hoped I wouldn’t tell the police when she said she had taken MDMA, I wasn’t sure what she was talking about.

Mind you, I recognised the euphoria, the obviously enhanced sensory experience she seemed to be having, the rapid eye movements (nystagmus) and the over-the-top intimate behaviour with complete strangers. Miss Tutu was buzzing. She couldn’t focus – “there’s millions of you! You look like a kaleidoscope!” - she wanted to hug everyone in sight, take her clothes off one by one, and was telling me how wonderful everything was. She was somehow talking to me and singing along with the band at the same time, too!

The strange thing about her was that she had such an odd look in her eyes – probably a combination of the unequal pupils, and the spasms in her jaw, accompanied by involuntary teeth-grinding and clenching -so much so that she was biting the insides of her cheeks until they bled. Her temperature was a little high, and her lips were dry and cracked and crusted with blood where she’d bitten her mouth. 

She seemed like she might have been quite a pleasant, outgoing, sensible sort of girl, but she had become a caricature, contorted and gurning, and amusing for all the wrong reasons. It struck me how completely vulnerable this little girl suddenly was. Fearless, confident, attention-seeking, young, pretty, half-undressed……… who knows what the story might have been if we weren’t there to look after her on Sunday evening. 

You make your own choices in the world, and whatever happens you have to live with the consequences.

She was lucky this time. I wonder what happened to the other lost girls and boys who weren’t quite so lucky.

Off to See the…..

No, not the Wizard, the V Festival.

No, I did not buy a ticket! I’m there to do first aid cover.  

Tell you all about it when I get back!

Spaniel xx

“Women’s Trouble”

Don’t glaze over – this won’t be too bad once we get past the embarrassing bit. Let’s face it, menstruation is just part of life, and something everyone needs to get on with. The actual period bit isn’t so much of an issue, really - its just biology; and easy enough to cope with, but I thought it would be worth sharing my ‘Thursday experience’, so that others who might have a similar experience can share, and those who have absolutely no experience at all, can try to understand a little.

The concept of PMT is a comedian’s dream. There are so many gags you can get out of the stereotypical stressed-out maniac who will snap at the slightest thing and start stabbing people. In my experience women like this don’t really exist. For me, the 24 hours before my period is the time when I start to lose my spatial awareness and start crashing into things – yes literally! I’ve got the bruises to prove it! – and is the time when the headache starts. Its the kind of headache you get with a hangover. Everything seems slightly too loud, too fast, too busy. I want people to be quiet and leave me alone. I just want to sleep, but I know that sleep won’t cure this particular hangover feeling.

Next day (which for me is always a Thursday) I will wake up feeling like I have the flu and a hangover at once. I have a fuzzy, woolly head that feels like I’m dehydrated, but no amount of water will fix it. My limbs are heavy and difficult to co-ordinate and I feel a little dizzy. I know I must get up for work, but on such Thursday mornings, I always wonder how on earth I’m ever going to get up and go to work. But I always do. I feel vaguely nauseous, light-headed and incredibly tired. My thoughts seem slower on such Thursdays, and I ache all over. I feel bruised, like I’ve been run-over. I’m much more likely to cry at anything – especially if I stub my toe or walk into the door frame. Making complex decisions is a real struggle. I battle on. Very soon the stomach cramps will start, and I’ll need the painkillers, but I won’t let this stop me from getting on with things, even though I’d love to give in and just sleep, I mustn’t. So I regularly take ibuprofen, perhaps interspersed with paracetamol or even aspirin, and put on a brave face. No-one knows I feel like crap. Keep similing. No-one wants to know, anyway.

Still, it will only be a few hours of hell. Normally by tea-time I start to feel better. By Friday I’ll be OK again.

Its awful. But its a fact of life.