Back to work! Ah, after a week off that I am already mourning the passing (and what feels like the complete waste of), too. Didn’t help that I was shattered this morning – more so than I have been all week! What gives? I was in bed before midnight!
Christ, I thought, struggling from said bed, in fact, I could actually be really tempted to call in sick. But off the back of a holiday, that’ll just look like malingering. Besides, I have a new cellmate to make friends with, a new job description to totally rock, and a batch of muffins to take in to all, along with the postcard (I am just the last of the big spenders!) Up and at them!
So today started with me getting up and hurling mightily in the bath. People, when the instructions say, ‘Use a dust-mask’; use a dust-mask. I spent all day today hacking up the dust of ages and old Ronseal particles.
Now, you would think that, having produced genuine Evidence of all not being well, I would be more eligible for a sickday; sadly, I mentally reviewed the probable outcome of calling in and saying, ‘Would love to come to work but I just threw up everywhere’, on a Monday morning, and decided I’d better tough it out.
And lo, the job description I was told I would have, before going on my hols? The Boss changed it once I was gone. “So sorry”, I have been informed, but the shake-up has now landed like this: everyone else has gone from working for two consultants to working for one; I’ve gone from one to two, and I still have the nurse-led typing. Which, in the boss’s own words, ‘nobody can be expected to do while also typing for a [one] consultant’.
Ooh… I’m right back to the job I had when first temping at the rival hospital, way back when I first arrived and the mists wreathing the retreating glaciers cleared on Pollok Park to reveal the mammoths. Except, I got ten hours’ overtime a week in order to clear this volume of work, and I got paid for them, goddammit.
None of this has been confirmed, however. All is hearsay, nobody knows for sure who they’re working for any more and the prevailing mood is one of revolution.
And apparently, the boss we will still have with us, in spirit if not in body. She is going to telecommute from Australia. There was stunned silence all round.
Well, if it’s like that; I sponsor a pensioner in Vietnam for twelve quid a month, and would be perfectly happy to telecommute from a beach hut where the living is that cheap. Just ship me and the demijohns over, please.
Well, at least my new cellmate seems lovely. We did not get much work done for me blathering on like a demented person, however, so she probably thinks I’m a lunatic. So much for our cunning plan to save her from my Colleague I Suspect Is Up To Something’s clutches – if I say anything now, such as, ‘By the way, steer clear of the back-stabbing loony’, then coming from someone who accidentally regaled her with stories of Notable Gun-wielding Loonies Whose Clutches I Have Previously Escaped, this will not sound so convincing.
I know, I know, you would think it rather difficult to accidentally broach a subject like that, but the Ronseal dust and subsequent near-asphyxiation had somewhat gone to my head, as had the panic. For lo, I have gig tickets for Edinburgh tonight, my ex-flatmate is coming round while I’m out, I have to belt home, get changed, walk between eight and twelve miles, depending how much of it I can bear, be crowbarred into a carriage full of drunken, screaming people (I assume, given Friday’s escapade) and spend two hours in a dark room wishing I was curled up asleep. Or at least, making more of an effort to enjoy something I had spent so much money on. And meanwhile, my window-frames are sitting completely naked.
Or, I thought, I could just not throw good money after bad, and stay home putting a layer of stain on the windows. It would be more sensible than trying to get all the way to (and across) a different city in this nick. On the other hand, how heroically awesome would it make me if I got up, threw up, spent a whole day working, and then did all that?
And how dead would I be if I failed at it. Even if I didn’t fail at it!
In the end, I stopped in and felt very grateful to be indoors (even with all the windows open and a winter’s gale nosing playfully round me turn-ups). And simultaneously, very guilty; for did I not have in my sticky mitt a gig-ticket for which my Colleague of Skull Scarves would have given her right arm (her husband, allegedly, cried, when told)? And did I not take this precious gem and spurn it in the mud? Metaphorically. Well, I did offer it to said Colleague, and apologise for the waste of it, but she couldn’t go either.
In conclusion, I am either a prudent, wise old owl, or a past-it old bat who can’t hack it any more. I fear I know the answer.