Where has she been?

You may well ask.

I have been teetering on the brink these last few weeks, between sanity and total meltdown, ever since the Child-Who-Would-Be-Line-Manager joined the organisation. How patronising to be told by someone who has been in the organisation for only 2 weeks that she will do all she can to help me progress - as if she knows what I am capable of or what I want to do. I've been working since before she was born, for goodness' sake. I thought that was the final straw there and then, but there were many, many more straws to come over the next few weeks, as my work got eroded, things that I took sole responsibility for just ended up on her desk instead of mine and, the final insult, absolutely the last straw was when I was told that I could only work on a particular project for one day a week. If it hadn't been for that project I'd have had no work at all, but Skippy, so called because she bounces around with so much energy and (misplaced)enthusiasm that I have been wondering if anyone has any Ritalin I can administer, has decided that I should be doing crap admin for someone who isn't even part of our team. Now, it all might just seem like semantics to the casual reader, but I am an Assistant Programme Manager, not an administrator. There is a grade and about £5K difference between administrators and APMs, and I am NOT going to be treated as a human shredding and photocopying machine.

It got to the stage where I couldn't speak to Skippy, or my previous line manager, for the lump in my throat, and eventually I gave in to common sense and went to see my doctor. The hurt and upset and angry part of me wanted to be signed off on full pay for as long as the University would allow (not long if you are a lowly APM - above that and you get a minimum of 6 months, no questions asked) but the bolshy, 'I'll show 'em' part of me was still just about alive, so I opted for going back on a full dose of Prozac.

The situation at work hasn't improved, but at least I don't feel sick the moment I wake up in the morning and realise I have to go to the office. I think, hope and pray that I can bide my time until an opportunity comes up in a different department where I won't have to listen to condescending children telling me what to do.

In the meantime, email me if you know where I can lay my hands on some Ritalin. Or cyanide.

To promote or not to promote ...

That was the question, and the answer was no.

Remember all you've read about the numpties here who don't know the difference between bear and bare, and past and passed, before reading on.

I'm a level 3 here, which is 2 up from bottom feeder and 5 down from Director. I've been a level 3 for almost 2 years and I feel I've paid my dues, I've done my time (I've done my sentance, but commited no crime ... and bad mistakes? I've made a few. I've had my share of sand kicked in my face and I've come through ...) Sorry Freddie.

My interview for a level 4 post was good, so the feedback goes, my presentation was excellent BUT, they're not going to promote me, oh no. They're going to bring in someone who is almost half my age (HALF MY AGE!) and this child is going to be my new line manager.

Spitting feathers? You betcha!

I suppose I could just about swallow that (with difficulty, admittedly) but, as if to slap me back firmly in my place, I'm being prodded back down to the bottom of the pond with piles of bottom-feeder type jobs to do.

Sometimes it's all too clear to me why I made a break for freedom in the first place ...

Repeat after me, 'It pays the bills, it pays the bills ...'

We all have our cross to bear ...

One of the people involved in the great past vs passed debate earlier this week had another dilemma today and asked my advice. Keep in mind this person is a manager, earning shedloads more than me and has the responsibility for writing papers that are published on our company's website.

Manager : when you ask someone to keep something in mind, is it bear as in GRRRRR, or bare as in take your clothes off?

Now, maybe I have been a little short-tempered today, for a variety of reasons that I won't go into here and now, but I did manage to stay calm as I said to her, in the tone one would use to encourage a small child asking a blindingly obvious question for the 25th time, 'Well, have a think about it. What do you think it's likely to be?'

While she was umming and aahing a colleague, obviously as irritated as I was, said, 'Bear. It's bear. B-E-A-R.'

'As in GRRRR,' I said helpfully, just in case she couldn't spell, baring my teeth.

Tell me again, it's not me, is it? There is something wrong with someone who can't get the bare essentials right getting a highly-paid and responsible job, isn't there?

It doesn't bear thinking about ...

Is it me?

People who have not had the same educational opportunities as I have can be forgiven for the odd lapse in their grasp of the English language. People who are 1 and 2 grades above me at work, who have been to university, are English, and who earn between £10,000 and £20,000 more than me cannot.

This is a verbatim conversation between two such highly-paid individuals:

Senior Manager: 'I get confused between passed and past, can you help?'

Manager: 'Yes, of course. What are you trying to say?'

Senior Manager: 'When you run something by someone to get their opinion, is it past or passed?'

Manager: 'Oh, um, it's, it's PAST.'

Senior Manager: 'Oh, right, thanks.'

Manager: 'Don't worry, I always have to stop and think about that one, and the more you think about it, the more confusing it gets.'

NO IT DOESN'T! It's not confusing at all, it's very simple. Passed is the past tense of to pass. Past means (in this context) beyond or by, and if the senior manager had any doubts, why didn't she just say, 'Let me run this by you' instead of showing her ignorance by not knowing the difference between past and passed?

I could give her this example to help her remember:

'How the hell did you get your job? No, don't tell me, I'm past caring.'

Something fishy!

Yesterday I treated myself to a Fish Pedicure at Mermaid's Corner in Southampton, the first place in the city to offer the treatment, and I can thoroughly recommend it. If you're anxious about having your toes chewed off by miniature pirhanas, don't be! The lovely staff will be able to reassure you. They are extremely knowledgeable about the fish, and the history of this entirely natural method of pedicure.

Dozens of toothless Garra Rufa fish inspected my feet before tucking in to the rough skin around my heels and giving the cuticles around my toenails a good tidy up. The feeling isn't as ticklish as I thought, it was more like the pins and needles sensation you get when your foot has gone to sleep and then starts to 'wake up'. It was lovely and soothing, and I could have stayed there all evening, but after half an hour my feet were beginning to wrinkle, and it was time for me to lift my feet out of the tank. After I had dried my feet, moisturising cream was applied, and I left the salon feeling as if I was walking on air. When I got home I whipped off my shoes to have a close inspection and I don't think my feet have been as smooth and soft in years.

If I'd had any sense I'd have booked a toenail shape and varnish to top off the treatment, but I didn't think about it when I made the appointment. Never mind, that's a good excuse to go back and feed the fishes again!

If you've been thinking about having this done but aren't yet convinced it's for you, give it a try! It really is relaxing and the results are fantastic! Give Mermaid's Corner a try - you won't regret it!

Spring cleaning

Those of you who know me will agree that 'tidy' is not my middle name. In fact, it's not even in my vocabulary. My brother calls me Mr Trebus after the elderly gentlemen in the TV Series 'A Life of Grime' and, when I invited my neices for a sleep-over when they were tiny, he replied, 'No, they haven't had their shots yet.' When he brings his dog over he says, 'We like Aunty Linda's house, don't we? Lots of places to hide, lots of interesting smells...' He even put my name forward for Kim and Aggie to come and pay me a visit on their show, 'How Clean is Your House' but retracted the request after I gave him the death stare. My Aunty Janet, whom I love dearly (and thank goodness I do!) came to vist once (I'd tidied before she arrived) and declared, 'My God, look at the state of this place! I don't even want to think what your bathroom is like!'

So, you get the picture. It's not dirty, but it's untidy. I have too much stuff, I am a hoarder and I am not ashamed of that fact. So many of the things in my house that others may call rubbish have a use that has not yet been identified, or a value that has not yet been exploited. One day, someone might want a couple of hundred empty CD sleeves. One day, back issues of Psychologies Magazine, still in their cellophane wrappers, may become collectors' items.

No-one was more surprised than I was when I decided that the Time Had Come, the time to pick up everything that was lying on the floor and the stairs, and clear everything away for the Carpet Man to come and deep clean the carpets in the hall, lounge, stairs and landing. I spent a whole weekend moving furniture and bookcases and shoes and bags and piles of paper and magazines and boxes of stuff that I was going to sort out 'later'. The result? A fabulously tidy and beautiful lounge! I love it! And I intend to keep it that way.

Now, if I can just beat a path through the furniture, bookcases and shoes and bags and piles of paper and magazines and boxes of stuff that are now crammed into the rooms upstairs, I might be able to find my way to bed ...

Perhaps Mr Trebus was an accurate description after all.