Excused invoices!

The Chairman of The Firm burst into my office today as I was shaking my head over another stack of invoices that had been emailed to me. If you are not up to speed with the invoicing saga, I seem to be bean-counter's apprentice and spend inordinate amounts of time raising invoices. I thought I was very restrained when 20 appeared in my email in-box this morning. I finished them all at 2.30 in the afternoon, and then 25 more appeared! So I was chanting my mantra 'it pays the bills, it pays the bills' when The Chairman appeared.

'Stop what you're doing!' he cried, slamming two full lever-arch files down on my desk. 'I've got something much more important for you to do!'

Well, I didn't need to be asked twice to stop doing the invoices!

He showed me the contents of the two files: a. 800-page document for a job we are going to be tendering for, which, if we win the contract, will net us about £10 million next year. Goodie goodie! And how can I help us win this important bid?

'I want you to make six photocopies of each file,' he said. 'Quick as you like!'

There were several reasons why I didn't hit him. One, it's grounds for instant dismissal, and in a credit crunch, any job is better than no job. Two, he's an old man. Three, he'd probably hit me back.

So tomorrow I'm going to be photocopying all day, apart from the time I'm going to be spending showing my boss how to do the invoicing. Not because he's going to take the job off me, no no no, he wants to see why it's taking me so long ...

Excuse me while I spit feathers ...

Fortitude and Forbearance

No, not a double act like Hinge and Brackett - although come to think of it ...

I have displayed a good deal of F & F since I joined 'The Firm' on 6 April. I have told myself that I am being taught a lesson in humility, that I am lucky to have a job, that it pays the bills - I have told myself all these things, and continue to tell myself a hundred times a day, but although all these things may be true, it still makes me feel as if I'm going to burst when some well-meaning pensioner who is still working says to me, 'Has someone shown you how to use the photocopier?'

Just to clarify: I am not on work experience during school holidays. I first started working in an office when I was twenty, and that was nearly 30 years ago, so I DON'T NEED TO BE SHOWN HOW TO USE THE PHOTOCOPIER, YOU SILLY WOMAN!

I'm taking a moment to calm down.

Fortitude and Forbearance may well be a very good name for a double-act, as it happens. My new 'roomie' - or rather, the person who shares my office, and my distaste for The Firm - can also be heard to mutter, 'I'm lucky to have a job. It pays the bills.' Spookily, we share several key hobbies and interests and have a pact: whatever is said in our office remains in our office. I don't know if blogs count. I'll have to ask him. I'll also have to ask him if he would rather be Fortitude or Forbearance.

The job certainly hasn't got any better, but the company has.

Lies, damn lies, and interviews ...

One in three adults lies on their CV when applying for a job, according to research published in The Independent on 19 February 2009. The figure emerges from a survey of about 1,300 adults.

I’ve yet to find any research about how many employers lie about the jobs they have on offer, although I can quote two cases from my own career history.

Take a well-known University, for instance, where I was employed as a PA to five senior programme managers. The other half of my title was General Office Secretary, although my interviewer assured me that this was really an office manager’s role.

He lied.

The five senior programme managers had never had a PA before and didn’t have the kind of work they could give to one, so that part of the job really existed in name only. As for the so-called office manager’s role, I seemed to spend most of my time reporting faulty light fittings and being called to look at blocked toilets. I took to signing my emails ‘GDB’ (General DogsBody) but no-one noticed.

I left that job as soon as I could and, while I was looking for another opportunity, I started this blog. My early entries show how fed up I was.

After two very happy years in my next job – where the role lived up to the promise at interview – I was made redundant and I’d either forgotten, or pushed to the back of my mind, the fact that employers lie at interview and in job descriptions just as much as candidates do on their CVs.

I took the first job I was offered after my redundancy and it didn’t take long before the lies became apparent. PA to Group Finance Director sounds good, doesn’t it? So you can imagine I was a little perturbed to be given a stack of paperwork on my first day and shown how to raise purchase orders and invoices. This, apparently, is going to be a regular part of my work. So is endless archiving (the Group Finance Director having done no filing at all since taking the job 5 years ago). And I was told by Group FD that the HR director was pleased I was on board because he had lots of work for me to do. GFD also told me that if anybody else gave me work to do, I was to do it. Hmm, so not just PA to Group FD then, more like – yes, general dogsbody.

Unlike the chief executive of a local authority who allegedly failed to mention she had suffered from clinical depression and then took 18 months off from her new job for it, I have mentioned on my ‘new colleague health declaration’ that I take Fluoxetine for depression. Much more of this job and I have a feeling that I am going to require an extended break. The new company pays eight weeks sick leave, and I think that would just about cover it.

Unless they’ve lied about that, too.

Guillotine!

It's just like waiting for the axe to fall. Even before I knew what was going on, the decision had been made, and no amount of telling me that I am merely 'at risk' can change the outcome: on or shortly after 18 March, I shall be told that I am going to be made redundant.

I am scared.

I am the only person bringing a wage into this household of 1 + cat. There is no fairy godmother to wave a magic wand and make up the difference between Job-Seekers (pitiful) allowance and the salary I totally depend upon. The local paper, which used to boast, 'Hundreds of Jobs in Today's Echo' every Thursday now shyly advertises 'Dozens of Jobs in Today's Echo.' In any given week, one or fewer of those jobs is suitable for me.

Employers may no longer ask your age, but they may ask when you received your qualifications: if you say you got your O levels in 1976 they can easily work out you were born in 1960. That can work two ways: either you are too old for them, or you may be over the age to ask for maternity leave, and that may be in your favour.

I'm 48, going on 49. I have no children, no dependants (unless you count the cat - and she will argue she is independent, although I have yet to see her manage to fill her own water bowl or open a pouch of Gourmet Perle - other cat foods are available) but I do have a mortgage, high credit card bills due to my desire to further my education - four years (part-time) at University has given Visa and Access a lot to be grateful for! I see my salary disappearing on or shortly after 18 March, and I see the president of the European sector of our business gleefully taking his annual bonus of £450,000 while he makes 65+ people redundant in the UK.

This is small beer compared to other companies that are closing, making their entire staff redundant: at least in my (soon-to-be-ex) company over 1,000 will be keeping their jobs. Good for them. Not good for me. It's hard not to be bitter. It's hard not to tell my replacement boss (my own has left - jumped ship before the rats were given their marching orders) to eff off when he asks me a 'favour' (not simply asks me to do something as part of my job, because he's pretending that job no longer exists: it does, he's just giving it to other people).

So I am facing the chop. It's symbolic : my head is to be separated (metaphorically) from my body, and that sums up my working life. My brain has never been fully occupied, my ability and my intelligence have never been fully utilised, so maybe it's fitting that my head is freed.

And, funnily enough, a very dear friend is a professional knitter. It gives me some comfort to know that she will be sitting by the guillotine as the axe falls, knitting furiously and crying, 'Guillotine! Guillotine!'

I shall smile at her as my head hits the basket.

Continuing the musical theme ...

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=Dl-ai9HuR60

Things can only get better?

Don't you believe it. Despite some reassurances from my outgoing boss, I'm still getting the cold shoulder from the incoming ...

Oh well, back to scanning the jobs pages, I guess ...

Soothing sounds

There is a song I've been playing over and over again, and I haven't tired of it yet. At the moment, while things are so up in the air at work, I'm finding it very soothing - in fact, I think it's doing me more good than Prozac! Because with Prozac you only know if it's been working after you've stopped taking it for a while, and with this song, it's like a 'hit' of calm whenever you need it. It's Mykonos by Fleet Foxes, and it's definitely going to be one of my Desert Island Discs ...

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=EeiRe4Qp9Dw

Bad manners!

I'll be the first to admit that I'm feeling just a tad sensitive at the moment. For some time now there have been things going on at work that have led my boss and me to think he's not long for this (corporate) world. A few days before my trip to Paris he confirmed that he would be leaving, but didn't know when, and when I came back from Paris there was an official announcement.

Now is not the time, and here is not the place to go into the rights and wrongs of it all. Suffice it to say, I am feeling pretty insecure. The person taking over from my boss hasn't had the courtesy to come and talk to me about whether or not he wants me to work for him (he's an internal appointment, so it's not as if he'd have to make a special trip - just walking up a short flight of stairs would do it). He has called a meeting to discuss the organisational changes, followed by lunch - was I asked to set up the meeting? Was I invited to the meeting? Or the lunch? Answer to all three questions is a resounding no. To my mind, that's just bad manners.

And a ghastly female with tenuous links to our department (not sufficient for her to actually sit anywhere near us, thank God) came upstairs today and started speculating about my future with the company in front of me. How I managed not to tell her to fuck off I really don't know, but while she was still in full flow with the rudeness she turned to my (pregnant) colleague and asked, 'Was it planned?'

I don't know about you, but I've come to the conclusion that good manners and courtesy are a thing of the past. If you have any evidence to the contrary I'd be delighted to hear about it.

This time last week ...

... I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, packing my wee small case for my £1 flight to Paris. Of course, after 'passenger fee' (what??) it turned out to be £10, but hey, who's arguing at that price? We had to book in on-line and we could only take hand luggage so it was a fun challenge! Now that I've been back for 3 whole days it seems as if I've hardly been away, but we had a lovely time. We opted to go to Paris instead of staying in the airport town of Beauvais and as soon as we hit the Métro I found myself walking taller, walking more quickly and with more purpose: I knew where we were going and I knew how to get there. It was great to be back - it felt like coming home, although it hasn't been home for over 20 years. My travelling companion was very laid-back and indulged my wish to go and see my old quartier and was happy to put up with my running commentary: 'Oh look, that was my post office, where I used to post my parcels and letters. That's still a bakery. That little lebanese grocery store's always been there. That's the bakery where I bought bouchées à la reine and didn't dare tell my guests that the 'meat' inside was lung ... Oh, and there's the park where I used to sunbathe, and there's ... '

A lot had changed since I left in Spring 1987, but a lot was reassuringly the same, and our final evening in Paris was a real trip down memory lane. I used to take all my visitors to a place in the Latin quarter called La Petite Hostellerie. The food was simple, but good, and reasonably priced. Tourists flocked there, but so did Parisiens - always a good sign. Not expecting to find it still there, I took my long-suffering friend along the narrow streets, again with the running commentary: 'That's the street where there was an Italian restaurant where I found a cockroach in my pizza ... that's where my brother and I ate when he came over for the Roland Garros ... and that's ... oh my God! It's still here!'

'Bonsoir mesdames, vous voulez manger?' We were greeted by a smiling middle-aged man in a beret which I'm sure he only wore to reinforce a stereotype. I started to tell him, 'Je mangais là tout le temps, dans les années 80 ...' and the words were barely out before his face lit up and he hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks and cleverly ushered us inside.

The décor hadn't changed. The menu hadn't changed. The cracked plates were the same - and the prices were still astonishingly low for Paris. We paid €15 for a 3-course meal. We'd paid that for an omlette in the brasserie next door to our hotel a couple of nights earlier. The head waiter sat down and chatted with me about the state of the British economy and it felt as if I'd never been away.

As we walked past Notre Dame and the Hotel de Ville - still aglow with Christmas lights - I wondered why I'd ever left.

Happy New Year ...

... to everyone!

Despite having a head full of snot for over a month now I started 2009 in a cheerful mood. With me, though, cheerfulness is a fleeting thing and I spent all last night trying to find a comfortable position in bed as I have a terrible back ache. I thought it could be sciatica (I've had that before) but I haven't got the agonising shooting pains down the back of the leg - instead I feel as if I've been severely kicked in the left kidney and I just don't know what to do with myself. Received wisdom (well, received from t'internet) is that staying immobile is not good, and that you should exercise. As something as 'simple' as getting out of bed took about five minutes, much groaning and swearing, and the use of the bedside table, I'm not sure that I'm going to manage anything approaching exercise at all today. I had to pour the cat biscuits into Bella's bowl from a great height this morning (she thought it was great fun, chasing her food across the kitchen floor) as I couldn't bend or lean to put the bowl on the floor.

Although I don't hit the big 5-0 until summer 2010, I am feeling every one of my 581 months today. It's no fun getting old, but I guess it's better than the alternative!

Christening

I went to a christening on Sunday, the first since the baby's sister was christened eight years ago. It was lovely to see a full church, and it was a nice service. We all repaired to the church hall next door for a buffet and drinks, and that's when I started to get cross ...

The stepfather of the baby's mother came round to tell everyone that the 'bar' was open and there was anything we wanted, except sherry and except for the people who were driving, who could only have soft drinks.

Excuse me, but when did the law change? If there's one thing I hate (well there are lots of things I hate, but this is a pet one) it's being told I can't do something by someone who doesn't know what they are talking about. The law states that it is permissible to have a small amount of alcohol in the blood and still be legally allowed to drive. This amount is the equivalent to 2 units of alcohol. As I used to calculate alcoholic units as part of my job, I do know what I'm talking about. The amount of alcohol in the tiny plastic glasses on the tray they were passing around would be, at most, 1.5 units. I was planning on staying at the christening for an hour or so, but even if I had downed the glass in one and gone straight out to the car and been breathalised, I would not have been over the limit.

I quite agree that people should not drink more than the safe legal limit and then get behind the wheel of a car, but I don't agree with people telling me that I can't have any alcohol at all. I take responsibility for myself; it's not up to anyone else. The fact that the wine was probably nasty cheap stuff served at the wrong temperature that would have given me indigestion is neither here nor there. I like to make my own decisions, based on knowledge of myself, alcohol and the laws about it.

The christening party was spoiled for me, not because I didn't drink any alcohol - because I don't drink much, contrary to what you might think reading this post - but because someone else set himself above the law. I'm not a 17-year-old who has only just learned to drive and who needs to be reminded of the law. I'm 48, I've been driving for 31 years, and the only points I have on my licence are 3 for doing 36 miles in a 30 mile zone at 7am on a Sunday morning when there was no-one else about. I really don't need to be told what to do.

It appears to be hard for adults who have children to treat other adults as, well, adults, and to let them take responsibility for their own actions. A word of advice: if you're offering people a drink, let them decide if they're going to have alcohol or not. After all, we're all adults.

Oops, I did it again ...

... booked another trip with Ryanair, that is, not done anything else Britney-style!

Well, when Ryanair offer tickets, including taxes, for £1 each way, it would be rude not to take up the offer, wouldn't it?

So a friend and I are off to Beauvais in January to exchange one damp climate for another. It's quite a big city, but, apart from the enormous gothic cathedral, I'm not sure how much there will be for us to see. Never mind, though. If we get stuck it's only an hour away by train from Paris! I am leaning more to simply landing at Beauvais and heading straight to Gay Paree, but I know that January in Paris can be very miserable, so maybe we'll explore Beauvais after all and save Paris for a longer (and hopefully spring/summer) trip, if Ryanair are so kind as to offer me £1 seats again.

Now I'm just hoping I can find hotels for £1 ...

Poked, prodded and pricked ...

... all in the space of 10 minutes!

Yes, dear readers, it was time for my biennial rubber-glove-and-lubricating-jelly-treat down at the Doctor's surgery this morning. I know everyone is short of time these days (as am I!) but they don't even ask you to remove your skirt any more, just your knickers, so I lay spread-eagled on the couch in my bunched up skirt and pop-socks while the practice nurse (you'd think she'd be perfect by now ...) avoided eye-contact and made polite conversation about how far away I worked and at least I'd miss the worst of the traffic this morning.

A few minutes later it was back on with the knickers, sleeve rolled up for a 'flu jab, then out of the door within the 10 minutes allowed for each appointment.

At least this time I was expecting an internal examination. Many years ago, when I lived in France, I went through a very low, morose few weeks, and decided to take myself off to the doctor, with vague ideas of low blood-sugar or low potassium, or something to explain why I was feeling so miserable and lethargic.

I related my symptoms to Dr Benlolo (no, really, that was his name) who listened patiently, then said, 'Strip from the waist down and hop up on the couch' and proceeded to give me a thorough, but inexplicable internal examination.

I don't think the intervention cured me, but it was the last time I visited a doctor in the 6 years I lived in France...

My Brilliant Divorce

Dillie Keane (of Fascinating Aida fame) starred in the one-woman show My Brilliant Divorce at the Nuffield Theatre on Friday. I can't remember the last time I laughed so much that I cried, and I certainly don't ever remember enjoying a play so much that I tried to find someone to come with me to see it again the following evening. Sadly, all my friends were already booked up for Saturday night so I didn't go again, but as I seem to be able to remember huge chunks of the monologue already, that's probably no bad thing. My colleagues will be sick of the sound of me by the end of tomorrow!

If the play comes to a theatre near you at any time, GO!

And if it ever comes out on DVD, get it!

The Land of Po

A little over a year ago, I fell prey to the marketing ploys of Ryanair, and ended up going to Marseille (October) and Barcelona (November) on very cheap flights. Last week, another such offer fell into my email inbox and I fell for it again! This time it's Poland, Wroclaw to be precise, for a week in March. Yes, I know it's likely to be very cold ... and by the time Ryanair had added on the cost of check-in and the cost of putting a bag in the hold, the flights had increased to £75, but never mind, I have time between now in March to try and sell vast quantities of unused and/or unwanted 'stuff' on Ebay and Amazon to try and find the money! I'm going with my travelling companion from Marseille, and we spent a happy couple of hours on the computer yesterday looking at hotels. We've settled on the 5* Sofitel, which had a pretty good deal on if you book and pay in advance on a 'no-cancellation' policy, so this is where we'll be staying.

18 weeks to try and learn a bit of Polish, although that shouldn't be hard. I could learn, 'Get out of my shop!' in Polish quite easily, as the owners of some Polish grocery shops in the city are refusing to serve British people. In case anyone out there is puzzled as to why this should bother me, the city in question is in England, not Poland ... Yes, I know, I could feel my blood pressure rising and a potential heart attack coming on as well.

Until later, do widzenia!

Colin Fry and TJ Higgs

I spent a very enjoyable and interesting evening yesterday at the Guildhall, where Colin Fry and TJ Higgs presented an evening of ... well, what would you call it? They call it a demonstration, but I felt it was an evening of connections, between this world and the world that lies beyond. I'm a believer, not a sceptic, but all the same I do question everything before I accept it - my belief is not blind. The messages that came through were specific, not the 'does anyone have someone on the other side whose name begins with M?' variety, and it was lovely to see the positive reaction of the members of the audience who did get a message.

If I was going to get a message, the Guildhall would have been the place. Less than a week after my mother's death in 1992, my father handed over the mayoral chain of office to the new mayor, and I took my mother's place at his side. She had been ill throughout the mayoral year, but fulfilled her duties with grace and dignity, never letting on that she was so unwell. My father died two and a half years later. If ever either of them were going to come through, I felt it would have been there, but I wasn't disappointed when there was no message for me. Perhaps, at last, I have come to terms with their deaths, and perhaps that's why other people received messages, not me. Other people in the audience needed to hear that their loved ones were safe, and in a happier place. I didn't need to hear that, because I already believe it to be true.

If anyone - sceptic or believer - is in two minds about going to see such a demonstration, I would urge them to go. It was a very positive and affirming experience, and I'm looking forward to Colin's new shows coming up soon on Living TV.

Pink Paradox

The company I work for supports Breast Cancer Care, and donates a certain sum of money to them for each pack of our best-selling product. It's a great cause, and yesterday, the culmination of Breast Cancer Awareness week, the whole company made a special effort to raise extra funds for the charity. Ladies dressed in pink washed cars, hairy-chested men allowed themselves to be waxed (ouch!), local companies donated scores of goodies for the raffle - with prizes including wide-screen TVs, use of a brand new Mercedes SLK for the weekend, hampers, six-foot tall cuddly penguins (as in Happy Feet) - and a good friend of mine supplied huge quantities of alcohol from her company (which is also one of my former employers) for the Finance Wine Cellar Clearance. I'm sure she won't mind if I add a link here to her firm's cocktail website, which she works tirelessly to promote. There was a Car Boot-ique - an indoor car boot sale - and various pink non-alcoholic cocktails to try, pink doughnuts on sale, and, as we have a multi-national workforce, a fantastic buffet of food from around the world to sample at lunchtime. The Pink Panther put in an appearance and we had a Wii-mbledon tournament. My doubles partner and I got through to the quarter finals (no thanks to me - she kept having to remind me which cartoon character I was!)

The only sour note was a 'phone call from my boss to one of my colleagues to tell her that she must not spend any time on Pink Day activities, because we were all far too busy... What a shame he felt the need to point that out when we are all very responsible when it comes to prioritising work. What a great pity he felt the need to point it out when he had spent half of Friday out of contact travelling to be with his girlfriend for the weekend ...

I guess when you get to that level of seniority you feel you can make the rules, but don't think apply to you. Funny, but I have always subscribed to the 'lead by example' viewpoint...

Next time he asks me to do anything personal for him, I'm afraid I shall be too busy ...

French music

When I lived in Paris, apart from tuning in to The Archers religiously every night at 8pm (because of the hour's time difference) I listened exclusively to French radio, which played mostly British or American music anyway. In 1996, French culture minister Philippe Douste-Blazy decreed that 40 percent of music played on French radio must be by French artists. Up until then, based on what I listened to, I'd say only about 15 - 20% was French.

I loved some of the French pop songs that were out during my stay in Paris and, much to my delight, some of them are available on You Tube - this was one of my favourites and when I found it this morning it was as much as I could do not to cry as I sang along (in my head, not out loud!) Just as well, as I was at work at the time ...

There is a live version on You Tube, so if you'd like to see Monsieur Cabrel, looking even dishier than he does here, search for his name and 'Encore et Encore'.



... Hours feel like weeks. You find yourself sitting on the floor, leaping up every time you hear the door bang ... Think yourself lucky that there's still a trace of his aftershave on your jacket ...

The song is about a woman whose boyfriend has left her - particularly poignant for me, as I was dumped by 2 men almost simultaneously round about the time the song was released. I suppose it served me right for going out with both of them at once! But I did find myself sitting cross-legged on the floor of my studio apartment, drinking glass after glass of whisky and diet coke (Tab, as it was called then) singing my little heart out to this song, which was practically on a loop on my cassette player, crying harder and harder as the bottle emptied.


Eau Sauvage by Christian Dior still brings a tear to my eye, but despite all the trauma of that period, the memories are happy ones, and I still love the song. I even learned something from the heartbreak, and I wouldn't have changed a thing. I'd do it all Encore et Encore ...

The nights are drawing in!

I don't know what it's like in your part of the world, but here in the South of England, at 7.30 in the evening, you could be forgiven for thinking it's around 5pm in late October.

I like Autumn ... in Autumn, not in late Summer - and for the past few years, September could have been classed as late Summer, with sunny days and light evenings. For the past couple of weeks I've had a quilt around me as I sit on the sofa watching television at night. My cat comes in with cold paws and a cold nose and snuggles close to me for warmth. I'm contemplating getting my winter-weight duvet out of mothballs because the summer one isn't enough any more.

So, instead of bemoaning the Summer we've (not) had, I'm going to embrace Autumn, and look forward to better television, stews and casseroles, and different clothes (although not for work - thanks to the aircon, it is permanently bikini weather in the office).

Only 108 days until Christmas!

Fast Karma

Karma works both ways, and sometimes it works extremely quickly...

The forecast said sunny intervals and the sky to the south-west was blue, so I took a chance on Saturday and went to the beach. Oh joy! My lovely hut neighbours had put a first coat of paint on the bits I can't reach and it's looking good. I handed over the money for the paint and Hilary said, 'Oh, David, tell her about that man! Kite-man!'

'Oh yes,' said David, a twinkle in his eye. 'I saw him in the car-park, with his leg in plaster. Seems he lost control of his kite and came crashing down on the sand bar and broke his leg ...'

When I stopped shaking with laughter I slapped on some suntan lotion and lay down on my lounger to soak up some rays. Within twenty minutes a light wind had sprung up, sending clouds to hide the sun. Another twenty minutes on and Hilary and David, by now clad in fleeces, packed up and went home. I toughed it out a little longer before retreating into the hut with a blanket and my book, shutting one door against the now howling gale. After another hour I gave up, got dressed and stepped outside the hut into the cold wind.

There was Kite-Man, leg all mended, blowing up his rig and preparing for an afternoon's fun in the sea.

Now that's Karma.

I take it all back ...

I got home, logged on in one last vain attempt to connect to the internet before giving Talk Talk the benefit of my (not very high) opinion of them and ... it's working!

Maybe the upgrade to the service in my area took a little longer than planned but whatever the reason, my internet service and I are happily re-united, without the need to buy a new router that I can't afford. Phew!

Thank you, God.