HR A Go Go

Oh, HR are drama-ering again, namely my old nemesis Fish Face. I quake in my boots when I see her extension come up on my phone, usually – there is a quick decision to be made of answering it, or killing myself, on the spot, to avoid her – except now a days because my work phone is diverted to my mobile, I don't even get that pre-warning name to decide if I am going to answer, or not.

No. Grrrr. I can tell it is a work number by the number on my screen, but I don't know who it could be anyone.

"Hello Christian speaking."

"Hello Christian its.... " she doesn't have to say her name, I can tell instantly from the distasteful, bogan, nasal tone – she talks out her nose, I image as the Wicked Witch of the South did – now threatening to damage my ear drum. 

Hello, you lying, duplicitous, self interested, opportunistic cunt, how may I help. "Hi."

Oh, shake of the head. Oh, it is going to be a bad day.

And it was all my fault. I was doing some house keeping and I noticed some paperwork had the incorrect dates on it and as it pertained to the Perth office, I corrected it and sent them a corrected copy with a brief explanation.

The next thing I know, is I get an email from Fish Face demanding an explanation as to how this happened. You see, the Perth office had done the work for the NSW office, and it had forwarded my correction east to Beelzebub. Oh, the horror, I thought. It is like inviting a vampire into your house, you just don’t do it. You'll never get the smell out.

I would never have sent the correction if I’d known that that opportunistic useless piece of …. bleach blond, straightened hair and bucked teeth, and too much fake tan, was going to have anything to do with it.

And, true to form, Fish Face has misunderstood the correction itself, just two dates, and has gone down the process of demanding details to effectively guard herself against anything that may come back on her on the arse. It really is pathetic to listen to. It is like hearing a drowning child on the other end of the phone flailing around trying to make sure it is safe at any cost.

And it makes me anxious, usually.

And, you know, while it is making me a little anxious, I’m thinking fuck it, and moving forward. I’m BatFink. Fuck off, Fish Face… my wings are…

And, of course, Boris is swanning around Europe some where and of no use to me at all.

The thing is, Fish Face has gone quite since yesterday, but sometimes that is just me lulled into a false sense of security, before she comes back over the parapet all self-interested guns ablaze. Cross your fingers.

Clueless HR Chick

The clueless HR moron eventually sends me everything she has, and by the sheer volume of documentation with which she has inundated me, I can identify the discrepancy in her figures that I assume she suspects she has, although I believe she is not any the wiser as she continues to point to one part of the figures and documentation when the discrepancy is in an entirely different part and set of figures.

If you throw enough pairs of soiled knickers against a wall, eventually some have to stick.

I so don’t want to tell her, er, I think. So, I put it aside, as it pleases me to do so. I so don’t want to give her the answer she wants, when she has continued to remain clueless as to what it is.

But, Boris calls to ask where I am up to on it? Where I am up to, I think. WTF? The Perth idiot had been cc’ing Boris into all the emails. And Boris doesn’t want to get stuck with all of her nonsense when I finish up for the week this afternoon.

Grrr!

So, I email the Perth moron with the results, so against every cell in my body.

Still, I am working from home, so what do I really care. Let's face it, everything is bearable when you are working from home.

Of course, I hear nothing from the HR chick in Perth, in gratitude, the sense of entitlement is strong amongst HR staff.

Oh HR Really?

Monday morning meeting with HR.  Boris was keen to meet face to face to address the issues that HR has been banging on about.

"They have calmed down a lot now," claimed Boris, trying to get me enthused in the meeting.

Nick Watson’s head exploded a few weeks ago, when he blamed me for his fuck up. He has been bad mouthing us, um, me, since. I can only presume that he thinks if he throws enough mud some of it will stick.

Boris has been pushing for the meeting for the last few weeks

"We need to meet face to face to clear this up."

I told her what I thought beforehand about all the issues we wanted to cover. And what I thought the outcomes should be.

And I have to say, Boris was magnificent. She didn't try to keep the peace. She didn't try to compromise. She used many of my talking points, which she drove home with an uncompromising attitude.

The HR brains trust came with 8 talking points, and we, of course, demolished them, mostly because, HR, as is nearly always the case, didn't know what they were talking about.

At least 3 of their talking points involved long held HR procedures which we knew more about than they did.

Nick Watson, a senior HR manager, who gets paid more than most people, has very little understanding of what he's supposed to be doing.

For instance…

Nick questioned us about salary packaging (Oh yes, I know, does it get any more exciting) and why weren’t we across the responsibility of it all. He questioned our poor response to salary packaging in the company.

Boris has since investigated the procedure for salary packaging, and guess what, it is essentially Nick Watson’s responsibility as he is the most senior HR manager in Melbourne, now that The PonyTail has gone off and had pups.

And that is how Nick’s remaining talking points are panning out with more investigation.

Seriously, HR never ceases to surprise me at how seriously rubbish they really are.

It is just a repository for people with Arts degrees and a god complex.

I'm On Sick Leave

Then, as it turned out. Tuesday I was having surgery, I was finally getting this thing cut off my face. My second head.

I took Tuesday off.

Now this was proper plastic surgery, cutting out the BCC, and then reconstructing my eyelid, to a degree, and it occurred to me this was actual surgery, the type people take genuine sick leave to recover from. So I called the rooms and lovely [receptionists name] was more than happy to give me the time off, she would email it to me.

All of our deadlines are next Wednesday, not to mention those two boring meetings, from the complainers. Apparently, I'm not allowed to say, you got it wrong, own up, we have to be more constructive and come to a resolution that best suits all parties.

Fuck off.

HR needs to fess up, and if it goes on for much longer, an apology will be required as well.

Then there was a third monumental stuff up, involving Nick Watson yet again, just yesterday, and it became a no brainer, I've gone on sick leave for two weeks. You guys, who chose a higher pay grade than I, you guys sort it out, let me know what you come up with.

So, I called Guido. "Maaaate."

Oh, yes, okay, I'd already been in contact with Guido, long before then. Ever since Sam said he was going home for 3 weeks, months ago. I had it all planned.

And now I don't even have to work, for most of the time. Lovely.

Guido was having some problem with his dogs, so much so he gave one of them a way. I think. He seemed to have them all in the car.

I've eaten a lot less food than when Sam is here, and it's only been 5 days. He always cooks, and I would never change that for anything, but he cooks huge portions. I'm just cutting back while he is away. And when I weighed in at the hospital, with all my clothes on, I was 88.5 kilos, when I am normally kind of 91, 91.5 kilos with my clothes on, so I have lost some already.

The sun is out.

The magpies call almost on queue.

Terrible after care instructions from the medical team. I only have instructions for what pills to take and when. Do I take off the now bloody bandages, or do I leave them on until I see these guys again, next Tuesday? I don't know, I've had no instructions on what to do?

I look like I was knocked out in the fifth round.

Monday In The Office

Monday, I am back in the office. Oh, don't ask. HR blamed me for their mistakes recently and my bosses took the opportunity to say that I need to be in the office to avoid this happening in future.

What the fuck?

"How can me being in the office stop HR lying (through their clearly hideous snatches, Nick Watson included)?" I asked Boris.

Boris just sounded like she had raised the white flag. Her tone with me was 'don't argue' just come into the office on Monday.

Seriously?

We just need to find a resolution, we don't need to argue, we know that doesn't go in our favour, said Boris.

It's just the type HR people are, those with a holier than thou attitude. Translation, vile bitches, Nick Watson included, the slimy toad, and they all hate to be seen fucking up.

Nick is blaming us for his mistakes. He is so slack, and he leaves everything to the last minute, and usually just scrapes through. This time he fucked up.

So we go into our regular battle with incompetent HR. No one wins these battles. Two serious mistakes were made, both by HR, both they are blaming on us. HR knows if they kick up a big enough stink, they look, shall we say, less to blame.

It's all about transference. Throwing mud.

Boris called a meeting with Nick Watson this morning, unbeknownst to me, but his train was cancelled, and he didn't show. It has been rescheduled for next Monday ensuring I'd be in the office for another Monday, and I am guessing with that, a pattern has been set. [spare me]

Boris had called another meeting for Wednesday, involving internal finance grumblings by The Miget and Chip, am I to be spared nothing, I think. 

FishGuts

But you should know not to get me started on HR. 

Then there is FishGuts in Sydney, who buggers stuff up, so many things she does she gets wrong.

For a woman who is paid 200K a year, to be so inaccurate, I can see no other way that she keeps her job other than she is sucking the boss' dick. (It is hardly a put down, I'd suck his dick too)

I hear a collective inhale. Oh come on, you can't say that, it is 2022. (Oh, I think I can, because I am gay and I'm not putting her down in some sort of sexist way to make myself look better like some hetro boy might. [I'd say the same thing about a guy] I'm just speaking the truth, with a little gay embellishment)

She just gets stuff wrong. So often. How does she keep her job, I ask you? (or does she save the mistakes just for me?)

Grrrr! Annoying. She is a senior manager. I'm sure she must get everyone to do her work for her. I'm not sure how she'd survive otherwise.

I push back, though, I don't care. (she's not my boss) So much so that she even thanked me for doing something for her recently.

"Thanks, I appreciate it," she said. It sounded really weird. I don't need to be thanked for doing my job. (well, her job)

But, then I realised just lately I have pushed back against a number of things she has asked me to do.

I guess it was recognition, of sorts, for the things I do do for her. If only she could do them for herself.

The next day...

There was more stuff she got me to do, which pissed me off and I did it through gritted teeth – just because it easier in the long run than taking on a fight with a senior manager, she has a director on her side and she is not afraid of running to him crying like a little bitch. I do too, of course. In the past it has been her Director of HR against my Director of Finance duking it out over fights I have picked with her. Anyway, again, she thanked me afterwards.

"I really appreciate your help. And I am sorry for doing that to you."

Seriously? You are ruining a good bitch I have about you on my blog that I'm about to publish. What are you doing, all this nicey pie shit for, you are doing my head in.

Truthfully, I think it is because previously I have let my anger show in the tone of my emails, you know, banging off a reply. Now I wait half an hour before I respond. Set my Apple watch timer. (no, I don’t really do that. Figuratively, perhaps) Go make a coffee, or do something else. Come back to it.

'Now, let me explain why we are not doing what you asked.'

Oh HR! Exhale

The Miserable Blonde from HR goes on and on and on and on… and on in that superior than thou way that so many HR people have – when they are popped out of the great big HR mould – and now I find myself doing things, and saying things, really just to annoy her. Yeah, I know, childish. Shake of the head. I just sent her an email specifically to annoy her this morning. (Oh, it's Monday, that’s my excuse)

Yeah, I know. (nervous smile) I need a good slap, really I do. Two wrongs, and all that...

But really, she is so rude and demanding that I just can't help it. (somebody stop me) I know I shouldn't, but I just can't help myself. (It makes me giggle, albeit briefly on a Monday morning)

I don't like her. (can you guess?) I'm pretty sure she doesn't like me. (I don’t need to many guesses) So, it just lends itself to me being unhelpful.

Oh, there is nothing rude on my part. I never give her anything to complain to someone higher about, I’m not that stupid. Just stuff that is supposed to needle her. Polite, but unhelpful. Things with a barb that just gets under the first layer of her skin.

I know. What am I like? People have real hardship, and I’m just whining like a little bitch. She could be nicer, though. Drop the attitude. She’d find that I was nicer too.

Fowl Hags

Sometime later, yesterday afternoon and this morning…

Of course, the HR bitches pushed back. (I should known better than to play with poison, but it amuses me so) And as we know, HR are only interested in what makes them look good. So, the Miserable Blonde rather deftly handballed the issue at hand back to me, only investigating it in as much as it affected her. There was no attempt to actually fix the issue, instead she concentrated on polishing her Teflon, as one has come to expect from the Human Remains. (Hiss like a serpent in the dark) And possibly I was the one left looking unhelpful. 

Then The Miserable Blonde called in HR witch backup, Jessica, this-doesn’t-make-sense-to-me Fletcher, and I stood not a chance. The bitches had a trump card, I knew nothing about. And I was done. Set and match to the vile hags. Well played, ladies. (I use the term 'ladies' ironically) 

I couldn’t help but be impressed by their sheer gall and tenacity, when I was just asking them to do what is, actually, their job, and they, if nothing else, managed to make me look bad as they went straight for the kill.

But that is HR to its very core.

Round of applause.

Human Remains

 

Oh yes, I should know better. But, it's Monday, and I am bored, and kind of, you know, blur. (tongue out emoji) I need something to amuse me. (back at work, not retired on a Greek island) And the universally hated HR slags always bite. Oh, I know, I shouldn't poke them with sticks, they are not here for my amusement, but... nose twitch, it's fun.

In The Office

It is just getting light as I leave the house. Me and my big mouth saying I’d fill in for Boris, it has just meant days in the office for me when I could have been happily working away at home.

My heel still hurts with every step that I take. Maybe, it has been marginally better lately. I think I have just learnt to live with the pain. It’s a metaphor on life really.

Still, the magpies are calling as I walk up the street in the braking light. I could be in Ukraine, I think, which makes me chuckle. Not because of the plight of the Ukrainians, but because that is what we tell ourselves to make ourselves feel better. I could be dead, so buck up.  The magpies are still calling as I head to the tram stop.

I just miss a tram at St Vincent’s Plaza, I could touch it I was so close. Duh! There is not another tram insight, the tram lines are deserted, so I run and catch the one I just missed at Albert Street, the stops are close. In fact, I’m at the next stop before the tram has passed through the lights, as I j walked and dodged the on coming cars. My glasses fog up as soon as I put my mask on. Grrr!

The majority of people on the tram have masks on. My glasses take an age to unfog, which makes writing this difficult. I wonder if anyone else on the tram is, actually, writing something, which I like to call productive. Most people are just mindlessly surfing on their phones.

There seems to be people getting about in the city, more people than I remember last week.

The tram slides quickly down its steel tracks and is at my stop in no time

I follow a handsome Asian boy with a beefy arse down Collins Street. It’s nice, kind of mesmerising 😀

There is a guy walking a head of him who is wearing, what I would call, cream checked golf pants which are so tight on him you can read the label on his undies.

I briefly picture the two of them… I shake my head. I am at my building.

I’m first in the office, all the lights click on with every step I take towards my office like I am the all powerful. (How we delude ourselves 😬)

4 coffees and I’m ready to face the people.

A bit later I wonder if I feel a bit weird.

A bit later again, I wonder if I was a bit ambitious with the coffees. I’ve cut right back on my coffee in take. It’s the office that does it to me, kind of the muscle memory of coffee drinking. But that’s triathlon style coffee drinking, and I’ve given that up for the most part.  I go and fill up my water bottle and drink water for the rest of the morning.

Day Two

4am. Buddy is restless and Sam takes him downstairs. I pretend to be still asleep, I don’t want to get out of bed, besides I have to get up  and go to the office, Sam gets to sleep in.

I’m up at 6am for my second day in the office.

It is winter dark. The bakery guy tells me he loves the winter and for me to enjoy my day as I get a loaf of bread for my breakfast. I have to say that I don’t mind winter. I like the change of seasons. And winter makes me feel alive.

Buddy is a sleep on the couch. Snoring. His pink tongue sticking out of his mouth ever so slightly.

I have fresh bread with Vegemite and coffee. I peruse Facebook, as boring as I find Facebook. It’s just dull, with friends posting cliched memes for the most part.

6.50am. I leave Buddy asleep on the couch and head out the front door.

Just before 7am. A Tesla backs silently out of its garage as I walk across its driveway. Pretty happy that is saw me all dressed in black in the dark.

7am. I catch an old number 12 tram into the city.

Georgio Armani is lit up in Collins Street. Bright, white lights shining out in the black veil of morning.

7.04am. A fat boy dressed all in black walks his chubby arse off the tram at Swanston Street. I can just picture him in his patterned undies with his love handles and his pastie white legs.

7.06am. A guy runs thudding onto the tram with a hoodie and a black mask over his mouth and olive skin, what I could see of it, all gangster like he’s running from the pigs. He was straight onto his phone panting deeply.

7.07am. I’m at William Street. A handsome Aboriginal boy is getting on as I get off. He has a black hoodie too that suits his complexion.

Two guys in a Ute with high rise specialist written on the side jump out of the Ute and rush into the building on the corner as if the building is in need of high rise specialists. They are a bit Starsky & Hutch, or whatever the modern equivalent is now with the kids. Two tattoo covered gender fluid boys with purple hair and piercings no doubt. 

The rear tail lights of a BMW 4WD are blood red strips in the dim morning light.

7.13am. I am in the office. Not really necessary for me to be here quite so early but I get up early and I get going early attempting, and succeeding, I might add, to make work suit me. Ha ha.

The lights in the office are on sensors and they come on one by one in front of me as I walk to the kitchen, like some new age yellow brick road coming alive just for me.

The coffee machine makes my coffee how I like it. The macchiato setting pours a shot of coffee and a shot of milk. I call it my 50 50. The same amount of coffee as milk. (The first of many)

The fruit box is empty.

And some time during lock down we have lost our luxo chocolate chip cookies and our scotch finger biscuits, now we have faux-airplane food, two pack biscuits wrapped in plastic as if even the biscuits have to be protected from the pandemic. Safe sex cookies. WTF?

At Work

10am. And people are already pissing me off! Grrrr! HR are attempting to throw their weight around. The Human Remains haven’t changed. Completely self focused. They don’t give a toss about anyone else but themselves. 

And nearly the first words out of Boris’ mouth were to do with the work that I don’t want to do while she is away. She just seems to forget the agreements we have come to, twice, once with our big boss.

It’s always interesting to watch a woman try to use her whiles on me as a gay guy, that she would use, presumably, successfully on a straight guy. I’m sure that is what Boris is trying on about the work she wants me to do. It just seems really weird.

I’ve had an extraordinary number of coffees as the coffee machine in the kitchen doesn’t seem to work properly on the first push of the button so every coffee is turning out to be a double shot.

On the plus side my ergonomic office desk is much more comfortable than my antique dining room table and chair at home. 😬

One more thing - I’d forgotten how lame accountant's humour is. Jeese, what they laugh at? I have walked back to my office multiple times already thinking, that's not funny.

Stupid Me

6am. Boo Hoo I am up. I’m going to the office. It’s dark, as you’d expect. (I mean mood, as much as I mean light) I should have said no. I did say no. Boris talked me into it. Stupid me.

There is not one positive thing I can say about going to the office. It is just a waste of time, as we have proven since March 2020. 

We're going through what I have to do while Boris is on holidays. Oh, good for her going on holidays. I should have said no.

Now, where are my black shoes?

Oh well, it could be worse, at least I walk to the office. Although, my stupid heel is still sore, so It will be half walk and half tram this morning, I suspect.

Anyway, I can't sit here all morning, sadly. Got to go...

The Pony Tail

I was in a meeting recently and it was announced, well, mentioned, well, referred to that that my least favourite HR person was leaving immanently on parental leave. (In August)

I call her The PonyTail. She always wears her hair sado masochistically pulled back into a severe ponytail, and I could always tell how much of a pain in the arse she was about to be, as she walked towards me, by the intensity of the swing of the pony tail as she approached.

Firstly, I was surprised, she was pregnant at all. I have been in meetings with her, but they have been zoom meetings for the last year, of course, and they are only from the waist up. And I was surprised as she must be over 40 and I presumed, without giving it too much thought, that she was a professional pain in the arse, working woman who'd forgone children for a career. I sneakily looked up her age, she is 39. I guess the reproductive bell is clanking loudly in her ears.

When I had terrible thoughts about what she could give birth to, a Labrador puppy, something green, perhaps a mass of hair. (I'd love to be a fly on the wall when the doctor presents her with a mass of hair wrapped up in swaddling blankets) Maybe, what could happen when she gave birth, sundry tearing, ripping, bleeding, splitting, squelching. It all made me smile. Perhaps I could get one of those dolls, and a box of pins… *

Then, I thought maybe it is time I got a new job? Or, at least, a new hobby. Stop thinking about your lessers. 

I decided the best thing I could think was that she goes on parental leave and never comes back. End of thoughts.

* Oh yes, I know that is terrible, but I can say it because I am gay, and this is just gay humour. We can say stuff like the miserable bitch bled from the snatch (male, or female) because we put a gay, voodoo, gypsy curse on her, sure we can. Some slag that crossed us left a trail of blood right the way across Kmart, maybe even bits of foetus, oh yes, us gays find that hysterical. The bitch had it coming.

But, of course, I don't want the boges amoungst us to think that is any way to treat women, oh no, no, no, Nigel and Gav, do as I do, not as I say, you piles of unrestrained man meat. Unless of course it is again some HR slag... ha, ha, ha, there is that damn gay humour again.

Boris' Holidays

Boris is going on holidays, 6 weeks off to visit her mother back in the home country. However, she can only go if I agree to cover certain critical roles. When she first suggested it back in 2019 when she was first planning the trip, before the pandemic hit, I agreed that I would. “Sure, no problem.”

But, you know, life has happened since then, and the buzz of me being a new kid has certainly worn off, and a certain amount of jadedness has settled in, certainly around the edges. There have been a few instances where I have got the blame for stuff and while I have been exonerated on nearly all accounts, well, I’m sure it has gone a long way to me feeling as though I am not thought of as highly as I once was.

Boris wants to further her career, and gets bonus’ as a manager. I just want the quiet life and don’t get bonus’ as I am not a manager. My 3 day a week job just keeps my bank account topped up so I don’t ever have to think about it. Boris wants the responsibility, I don’t. I have learned working in the corporate world, unless you are a ‘yes’ man and willing to tow the line to the nth degree, if you keep your head above the parapet for too long the most likely outcome is that you will get it kicked in.

So, when Boris asked me if I’d fill in this time, I responded with, 

“I don’t feel as though I am thought of highly in the company, and that doing more hours in that environment I don’t feel is in my best interests any longer, so I would have to decline.” Or something like that.

Boris called me right up, telling me that I wasn’t thought of badly in the company and that she didn’t want me to feel that way. And somehow, I had an attack of the team players (Jesus Fuck!) and somehow at the end of that conversation I'd agreed to do a very limited role, two functions only, so she could go away on holidays. 

And I have been kicking myself ever since. I don’t want to do it! But, I like Boris and I didn’t want to be the reason she couldn’t go on holidays, which is totally ridiculous, now that I think about it, as they could have got a temp from anywhere to do the job, (they could have done whatever, really, what do I care) stupid me. I am cross with myself for caving in.

It means that I have to work 5 days. It means I have to return to the office, for at least part of the time. And I have to be responsible to everyone during that time. I don’t want to do it. I am an idiot.

So, you can well understand how I felt when Boris sent me a list of all of the functions in her role that I would have to cover. 

Ah, no, I thought. (actually, my reaction was much, much stronger than that, however) I emailed her back saying, “I thought I only agreed to do [function A] and [function B]?”

She conceded that was what we agreed. And has made arrangements for those functions to be completed by other people. (or is in the process of)

I have held that position firmly since. (Because I am sorry I agreed to any of this stupid me)

Perhaps, I am just a whiner? No. This is the only place I spew all this stuff out. I do tell some close friend’s snippets of this, I’m not really good at small talk, but most I just keep it to myself, other than here. 

I watch people and their small talk and I see that most people just tell the same details over and over again, in social settings. I find once I have told it once, I am just boring myself if I repeat it to the next person. Small talk is done best by people who find themselves endlessly fascinating. My friend David is a master at it.

I Went Into The Office

I'm good. The summer has ended and the days are darker and colder, sad face. I'm still working from home, of course. 

Actually, I went into the office for the first time since March 2020. They upgraded my laptop and I had to go in and get it and get it set up and all that blah, blah, blah. The security is better, I was encouraged to go in. It was suggested to me.

So, I got up at 6am. Showered, ate my vegemite toast and drank my coffee and left by 7am. It has been so long since I have done the walk that it almost seemed like a new experience. Ha, ha.

I got into the office at 7.30am. Nobody was there, the lights weren’t on. (They go on and off with sensors so, you know…) My big boss wasn’t in, nor was Big Ange. The three off us are the early arrivals. My big boss gets 500K, and Big Ange is a manager of her own dept, and the person who possibly lives the farthest away, so that’s their reasons for arriving early. I arrive early so I can leave early.

I cracked it for the morning breakfasts the company is putting on to entice us all back to the office. So, I stuffed my face with pastries and got the cute baristas to make me several coffees. I managed to ejaculate cream from a passionfruit profiterole all over the carpet in front of every one. Everyone looked. I grabbed a serviette to clean it up but the catering manager said, “Don’t worry about it, Christian, that’s why we have cleaners.” I gave it a few wipes none the less. Well, I already had the serviettes in my hand.

And then I met up with my muscle-bound IT guy (who is really nice) and I got my new laptop. I waited for the rest of my team to show up for work, testing out the new machine while I waited, getting some work done. We have all been encouraged to come into the office for at least one day a week, a directive I have thus far managed to ignore. Not one person in the finance team came into the office. (Apparently, The rich lawyers have maintained 5 empty floors in the Rialto for 2 years, more, although some of the lawyers are back in their offices.) So, at 10am I packed up my new laptop and headed home.

Not much has changed on the home front. 

Sam and I are waiting for Sam’s 18 year old nephew to arrive. Sam is getting all sorts of things ready for him, short of this kid’s jocks & socks. He is here in weeks. He’ll start uni second semester. So that will be nice, we hope.

We're all crossing our fingers that the great big cunt running the country will be voted out on Saturday. Hold our breath. Cross your fingers, cross everything!

Tortoise or the Hare?

Really, Kris Kringle, I thought as Big Ange shoved the hat in my face and told me to pick?

Then the person buying for me didn’t know what to get me, as grumpy as I was about the whole cliched Kris Kringle thing, this made it worse. I worked it out for “my person” people, give it some thought.

Mel was asked to ask me what I wanted. So, I have to think of more than one present, I thought, really? How about fucking surprising me, I thought, as I held a completely straight face gazing back at Mel.

“I dunno.” I shrugged. I headed back to my desk.

Eventually, I asked for a plant, so as to avoid landfill.

I was given a plant in a (tacky) decorative pot which had no drain hole. When I, rather, maybe, ungratefully, pointed this out, I was told just to give it less water.

Just stupidity, I thought. And now I have to fix it.

So, I carried it all the way (walking) home and drilled a couple of holes in the bottom.

This morning I was carrying it back again. Briefcase in one hand, plant in the other. Swapping arms when they got sore, which didn’t really help as my arms never really got relief.



The athletic chick passes me on the inside coming down to the old treasury building, walking faster than me. In her activewear, of course, strapped singlet over her toned shoulders, arse like a pear. Of course, I get my back up because she pushes into me as she passes with her headphones on, and her “can do” attitude. Me with a bag in one hand and a pot plant in the other, my arms starting to ache.

Bitch, I think.

I jay walk at Spencer Street and get ahead of her heading down Collins Street.

Purposefully? Of course.

She passes me in front of Collins Place. I jay walk at Exhibition and Russell Streets. She’s passes me again in the straights, in front of 101, and in front of the Regent. We both hit Swanston Street at the same time.

I have forgotten about my aching arms.

She takes off in front of me, as the little green man is displayed. I jay walk at Elizabeth Street and was out front again. She passes me at 333 Collins. I walk straight across Queen without stopping, or without seemingly blinking an eye, and was ahead again.

I got to the finish line first, even if she didn’t know where the finish line was, even if she didn’t know there was a finish line.

Briefcase in one hand, plant in the other.

I wondered, was I the tortoise or the hare? I laughed to myself at the thought.

Work Problems

There are problems at work, Melissa told me. Mistakes have been made. (boss) Tony’s apparently not pleased. Melissa said he has been giving her shit for two weeks and it hasn’t been pleasant.

Giving her shit, I thought?

Contain the contagion, was my next thought. But no, apparently not. She was dumping it on me.

So, there are problems?

But, is it me, or is it Melissa. It was hard to know who?

She has a lousy memory, she really forgets everything. I knew about one mistake, as Tony spoke to me about it when Melissa was away. And I only did it, what turns out to be, the wrong way after I confirmed it with Melissa that it was the way to do it. I tried hard not to say that to Tony… but I think I tactfully slipped it in. (I’m standing up for myself now a days, sorry if that doesn’t work for you.)

She forgot to send the English office figures from Wednesday to the next Monday. She said I could do them in future. (Because she forgot to do them?)

The other mistake, I am sure was HR’s fault, some chick who is sick and having a lot of time off. Melissa had mentioned it in passing, and when I asked her directly, she implied it was my fault, by saying she’d asked me to sort out the figures for the sick woman’s extended leave. And I did, but, as far as I knew, that finished last September.

Melissa didn’t say it very forcefully, like it was still an excuse, for something she forgot to do, yet again. I have emails with HR saying it finished in September. So, did Melissa get further instructions that I don’t know about?


I decided not to worry about it. Oh, fuck it, who cares. I get stuff right… and I can’t help but suspect Melissa is blaming me for stuff she’s done. But that always seems to be my work story. Is that always the work story? Actually, yes, I have always found that to be the work story. If someone can lie and cheat and blame the shit for which they are responsible, on you, they will. In my opinion, that is the human condition.
Oh, who cares, whatever. I should be doing more artistic pursuits, anyway. That novel isn’t going to write itself…