I'm late.
For the first time in a month, I'm late.
Every day for the last month I've been early, but today, I'm late.
Fuck.
I'm out of breath, feeling the intense glare of the supervisors on me. They're making me sweat even more. Surely they'll be reasonable and see that I've been early by a good ten minutes every day since I started last month, and that 5 minutes don't really matter, especially as I didn't get paid for all those early mornings. But then again, I'm agency staff.
As expendable as you can get in the world of employment, that's what I am. That's what we all are here, all subject to being cut out of the company at a moments notice, like cancerous growths. The staff turnover here is ridiculous; in four weeks I've trained about 5 people out of a continually changing group of 15 temps. I'd say that around double that have been through here in the time, though. Never too happy about solving problems, just blaming them on the agency staff and then replacing them with someone else who'll hate this place.
Most of the permanent staff here treat us like we're five year olds, though some of them are younger than us – in time we all get pissed of with their patronising remarks.
The other day, well, most days to tell the truth, grumpy bitch permanent was busy chatting to frumpy bitch permanent, planning their weekends, according to Louise temp. We were discussing a piece of work, and our weekend plans, when grumpy bitch turns her tiny head around and said:
‘You guys got enough work over there?'
Think back to the most infectious, patronising, whining sound of an up-herself bitch of a teacher you had at school, and that's about the tone she used.
I simply replied ‘Yes', trying very hard and just about managing to say it directly without being openly caustic.
Ooh, the blood in me boils just thinking back to this. Its already fifteen minutes since I got here – doesn't time fly when you're in the shittest job you'll ever have, and are almost always seething with anger at being treated like this?
I used to enjoy this place in the first few weeks after I started, as it was like being back at school or Uni. I'm part of a team of about 15 full time temps, and everyone is about my age. The five or so of us that started at the same time broke down within a week. The first to go was the spoilt girl, though she seemed like a good person. Younger than all of us, she was a bit naïve to call a sickie and not even ring the agency to let them know. Even though it was genuine and they got the message, these bastards fired her.
Being trained by other temps was fun though, since for the first week we'd spend most days talking and getting to know people while learning the basics of the in-house computer systems. By now, me along with other people have trained the never-ceasing flow of new temps that have replaced the people that have either left or been fired. And as a gift of kindness from the management for us training their staff for them, we've been told that the productivity is too low. Obviously not that much work's being done if one half of the staff is training the other half. If only the permanents could realise this. Well that's their fucked up perspective, anyway. Personally, I think it's because they keep firing people for lame reasons, one of the perks of a very unhealthy management system. Perhaps that's just my opinion, though.
For the past few weeks the work's been dwindling. Most of us experienced agency workers are being laid off because of it, and they're hiring new people at the same time. The supervisors really don't have a clue. They can't see the high staff turnover for the sacking and hiring of us agency scum.
But back to the present, and I'm here feeling stressed over a job a monkey could do given the same amount of training. Time for a trip to the vending machine for a caffeine-charged beverage, I'd say. The vending machine is on free-vend, so by now I've tried most combinations of coffee, whitener and sugar, and so-called cappuccinos. The fact that the drinks are free is one of the few selling points of this job. That's how enjoyable this place is to work in. Unable to take the tar-like drinks that are spewed out from this machine more than a few times a day, I often choose the raspberry-flavoured water. Risk more than two of those in a morning, and you get a headache. Don't even bother with the tea – loading piss with caffeine and freeze-dried milk in a foul brew doesn't quite invigorate the soul.
Normally in life, getting a round of drinks in can seem like a bit of hassle, but when it involves being away from the computer screen for longer, everyone seems to be surprisingly generous with taking turns.
Returning from the machine, this time with just my own drink, I try and work out where I was with the piece of work I was doing.
Give it another ten minutes, and it'll be time for the first tactical shit of the day. There are 2 types of tactical shit – the first one is a during-the-day tactical shit, allowing the eyes to rest for a few minutes. It's the best way to catch up on sleep, I find. I get in the cubical and set the alarm on my phone for ten minutes' time – any more than that and I'd be pushing it too far. Close the eyes and hope some REM will occur. Personally I try not to have more than one tactical shit an hour, I'd avoid them if I could, but it's the best way to stop myself from falling asleep on the desk. Yes, I am aware that I didn't get to sleep till about half one last night, but even if I had, the computer screen takes it's toll before long – making us all input data like a bunch of zombies. Oh, how I would like to share my rage with the permanents who ‘manage' us. It would fill me with joy to run up to them and vomit blood over their gimpish features, in a cross between a zombie in 28 Days Later and Edward Norton in Fight Club. The second type of tactical shit is taken on 2 occasions, once just before lunch and once just before the end of the working day, and it's this second type that earns the tactical shit its name. Think of tactical substitutions in football, made to kill time just before the end of the game. You probably get the idea.
Eventually, lunch break is here. We're on the lunch rota, along with the permanent staff. The reasoning for this eludes me, as we're not even given ID numbers for the phones, so we certainly aren't going to answer any. Apparently, through talking with fat bastard permanent, that's why they're on the rota, to make sure people can answer the phones. Not that this has anything to do with us, we still get lumped into the same system. Hence for the many lunchtimes where we're split up, some go to the pub, then others go later, once they get their chance to briefly flee the open plan. Though today I'm gonna be a rebel and rather than swap with someone or negotiate with fat bastard, who happens to be the one who organises the rota (I wonder if such responsibility is worthy of a mention on his CV?), I just go with everyone else, and we fuck off to the pub.
The weather's lush and someone's got a dodgy mixture of lemonade and vodka in a plastic bottle, so I think fuck it and follow suit. At the bar, I get in a few drinks with my lunch. Three pints in one hour? After barely eating all morning? When you're going back to work afterwards? Simply put, yes. Like most lunchtimes, we're all sitting about bitching about how shit this place is, and how someone's got a job interview coming up. It's inevitable that I'll soon leave, I can only put up with the crap in this place for so long. Quite literally, since I've noticed on many tactical shits that the bogs stink worse than at the Vetch – and the single asthmatic extraction fan really does struggle.
It's so much better when most of us have the same lunchtime, though I did discover a shortcut to Tesco on one of my solitary lunch breaks, and also that they do rather good cheese ploughman's wedge sandwiches there. The Tesco here is a complete shed though – it looks like it was the first ever one in Britain , the original prototype. Though like other supermarkets, the ready meals aren't bad for the money. I've noticed they don't sell plastic cutlery, though, so their canteen has a few less forks than it used to. The first time stealing cutlery from there made me nervous as hell though, worrying that a security guard might have words with me for nabbing a metal fork. But luckily, they don't care too much so I made it past the lack of machine gun nests. Walking back via the side of the valley train line, it makes you wonder why the trains aren't really used for commuting here, seeing as the enterprise park contains a large amount of the jobs in the area, and most of the best places to spend all of that hard-earned cash. Compared with London and most other cities, the concept of an integrated transport policy is defunct here, with almost everyone driving their commute rather than spend double the time on two or more buses. It's surprising that people associate this place with green and openness in dim light of the emissions from rush hour traffic. Sometimes I wonder if I could get to work quicker by boat, across the bay and up the river.
The final pint is a struggle to get down in time, the stomach being full of chips and microwaved burger, along with two more beers. The food's surprisingly tasty here, seeing as it's served within five minutes of ordering – always slightly dubious outside of MacDonald's or Burger King. The biggest limiting factor with this sort of rushed pub lunch is the struggling with sachets of sauce, an easily solved problem if a steak knife is at hand.
And then there is the unwelcome return to our homely Customer Service Centre. Grumpy and frumpy both make an obvious look at the clock to indicate we should be fully logged in and doing work by one minute before the end of the lunch hour, being on time isn't good enough here. We all hope the customers become aware how little the permanents care about them – getting through the numbers is more important. Not customer focused, not staff focused, it's all in the numbers. But then this is a major high street bank, numbers are bound to be the priority. Errors and quality control aren't that important either, they just blame it all on insufficient training. Blame and Fire, Blame and Fire. This is problem solving, CSC-style.
Normally in a job, afternoons drag, but when you're on compressed hours, afternoons dig their heels in and try their hardest to resist the dog lead of time. Before I was given access to a car to get here, and had to get lifts every day with grudgingly compromising family members, the ten hour (minus an hour of already-discussed lunch) shifts certainly padded out my day. Aside from the hour dedicated to getting here and back again, the endless faffing about trying to scrounge lifts home from this wonderful ‘out of town' place meant that for most days, between eleven and twelve hours a day were allocated to earning money by draining any soul I have left and also destroying my eyesight.
A feeling of dread that has been slowly spreading from the back of my mind is reaching saturation point. On Friday I needed to catch a train within half an hour of finishing here, so I asked the supervisor if I could leave about an hour early. I've done this before, and was successful, but this time my luck was out, or to be more precise, the time sheet had already been faxed to the agency by the time I got round to asking. Perhaps asking at three o clock to finish at 5 instead of six was a tad last minute, so now I've a decision to make.
Since I got no joy with persuading them to let me make up the time next week or something (their trust doesn't extend that far, not that I can really blame them for that), I realise that I can't really make it to the train, which is pre booked, and is the last direct train to London from here.
What would you do if you'd put yourself in the same situation? As with any decision, you need to imagine and predict journeys that that the paths of choice would lead down, deciding whether or not you are prepared to make the decisions that paths of choice will inevitably lead you to. In my experience, the path that starts with a tough decision but then results in easy to moderate decisions is best. I've explained the bad planning on my part that lead to this point, but I've so far left out a critical factor. The train journey is to my girlfriend.
So now, the decision could become part of a larger dilemma of work/career versus relationship, but allowing your mind to ponder this will mostly delay the decision that needs to be made here. Ultimately in life, compromises must be made either and both ways in this struggle of focus.
Clearly, leaving early to make the train would make the relationship a higher priority in the very short term, but a long term, long distance relationship is difficult to finance when on the dole. This decision needs to be evaluated further, which isn't a problem as this also involves avoiding work for a while, pretending to look busy by using a notepad on your desk.
A weekend in London normally involves arriving at your girlfriends place at about half 11 on Friday evening, then leaving on Sunday at 5 in order to make it back to rainy Wales at a reasonable hour. Thus not a huge amount of time is available on a typical weekend. If you wanted to quantify this, then predict how much of a difference the decrease in relationship time will have on your girlfriend's attitude toward you over the next few days. The effects of this may well be more longer term than that, though hopefully not for more than a few weeks. Forty three hours is roughly the amount of time you get together. The chances are that you both need a lie-in, as it's the weekend, so 9/10 hours sleep Friday, and the same Saturday, totalling about 18/19 hours. Twenty 4/5 hours are then left for being in each others' company. Quality time is tricky to define, let alone quantify, but without considering this too much, between a third and a half of the days worth you're given is about right. Thus 10 hours is your quality time figure for a typical weekend with the missus.
The effect on calling off going to your girlfriend, because you didn't have the guts to ask if you could leave early, on your relationship would clearly be too bad to deal with right now, but then there are plenty of trains on a Saturday as well…
Considering the effect on these figures that getting a train on Saturday morning would have is the next step. Arriving at your girlfriend's house at about 3pm would result in 17 hours lost, and using the same estimate 9/10 hours of this would be spent asleep. So, out of 7 hours of time in each others' company, there's a loss of about 3 hours. That's 3 hours out of a possible 10 quality time hours.
So now you're back to decision point, and after a fair bit of time wasting whilst doing pointless calculations that coldly quantify your relationship, you've got to go with your gut feeling. Leaving early will probably LOSE YOU YOUR JOB. Leaving normal time will DAMAGE YOUR RELATIONSHIP. Though technically, this effect applies to whatever happens, as it's doubtful your girlfriend wants a ‘mistur' that is crap at organising even this simple task and is a pussy when it comes to admitting and then correcting a mistake.
Not forgetting the other solutions that pop into your head once all of this has blown over, and you've either lost your job or had your girlfriend distance herself from you for an impossible to predict length of time, though Eddie Murphy would probably say you'd be back in her good books as soon as you next make her come.
Driving to the train and leaving the car in town would also create a problem, as then mother would have to drive into town to get the car, with step dad, to collect the car and go home again. Long stay car parking is one of the other solutions that pop into your head afterwards.
So, drawn between inconveniencing mother or girlfriend, or those that pay me money which I use to see my girlfriend, I chose to leave early without permission.
Would you have made the same choice given the same decision? I don't know if I'd do the same if I revisited these events. Now, however, I have to deal with the consequences, as I think supervisor permanent is calling me over to have a word with her.
‘Bring your stuff with you', she instructs me. This sounds ominous.
I follow her to the meeting room downstairs, where she makes the decision, which I've wanted to make for weeks now, for me.
‘It's not on, we're going to have to let you go'.
I don't kick and scream, I want to go, but I don't know what lies ahead. She tells me that since the work has been running low, giving them an excuse to let me go wasn't too clever. Once we're done, I make a point of not holding the door open for her, or looking back, and leave the building with the same sense of false freedom I had when I dropped out of Uni. To make the decision and quit what I was doing seemed daft at the time, but making the decision for them and fucking up leaves me with a sense of weak-mindedness.
As I drive home, I fuck up at the junction that I've driven past every day for the last month or so, going straight on when there was only a left filter. Luckily I miss the cars coming at me from the left, and go into town to woo other agencies into finding me work. My time is up with this assignment and this agency, but I'm still not ready to commit to a monthly pay check.
doph 2003