I really really do not want to pursue the mediation process in relation to Line Manager. But I am "caught het" as my husband would say. Because I am the one who asked for this in the first place.
So now I feel completely trapped, and that I have no option but to continue.
My reasons for wanting to discontinue are not based on "apprehension" as Personnel would have it. It is more a case of apathy.
1. I first asked for mediation in September 2010. At the time the organisation was not willing to pay for it.
2. Things between Line Manager and myself continued to deteriorate, culminating in a horrible incident last September.
3. Following a protracted grievance process that, while found in my favour, caused me so much stress I suffered a Mental Health Episode; I was assured in March 2012 that mediation would be arranged as soon as possible.
4. Nothing happened for weeks, and now are limping along so slowly that mediation is now being proposed for the end of July.
What to say to Personnel and the Hierarchy now?
"There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures"....?
I feel that we all managed to miss this tide approximately two years ago, and that if I take it now, I will be swept away to a country I no longer have much interest in visiting.
Personnel email me the telephone number of the "mediator", suggesting that I call her for reassurance. In order to show willing, I ring said number later that day.
Almost every interaction is governed by someone's agenda. Mediator appears pleasant, brisk and helpful; but - let's face it ! - this gig represents paid employment and an entree to one of London's most highly rated local authorities. So when she advises me to go ahead as it is not going to make things any worse, I want to start doing my "mmm" thing.
But because she speaks intelligently and directly, I end up telling her exactly why mediation has started to seem pointless.
- I am fairly happy with the newly drawn relationship with Line Manager (distant, work-focused, professional)
- I have no interest in developing a closer bond with him
- I have absolutely no confidence he will maintain confidentiality about the proceedings
- above all, I believe he will divulge information to someone I really don't want to know anything about me (nb: Remora - my implacable enemy for the past 4 years)
- mediation will involve me exposing myself and becoming vulnerable
- the very thought of this makes me feel breathless and anxious
- I've lost sight of why I ever wanted to go through the process in the first place.
At the end of this monologue, Mediator says it is entirely up to me (well, yes. It is). But she picks up on my comment that I feel completely isolated from everyone I work with. And observes that clearly I have totally withdrawn in order to protect myself.
Protecting myself is now my primary consideration when in the proximity of a Certain Group of People. It's not what I first envisaged when I took up a job in local government - an environment I imagined to be insular, safe and friendly.
Who knew?
Thursday, 14 June 2012
I know not "seems"
My young friend Leslie rings for a chat (she has asked me to support her on her journey towards "normality", little realising that she is also helping me, and far more than she will ever know). Leslie asks if people sometimes treat me in a distant manner based on how I look and talk. I burst out laughing.
"Oh God, YES!" I tell her. "All the time!!"
This even happens with members of my support group. Frequently, when I am giving the main talk at a meeting, someone kindly takes the trouble to inform me that when they first met me they felt instant loathing because I appeared to be someone without a care in the world.
I guess I shouldn't be altogether surprised that this reaction to me is replicated endlessly as I go through life, and most especially in the workplace. I have no defence against it. But I have never quite worked out how I so successfully manage to hide what is actually going on inside my head.
"So may the outward shows be least themselves....."
Two examples within the past 24 hours:
1) I receive a call on my personal mobile from a "gentleman" (I use the term loosely) who works for a local estate agents. He is attempting to discuss a matter which is currently being handled by my solicitor. I remind him of this and state that I won't be commenting. He becomes unpleasant and makes silly meaningless threats. I terminate the phone call.
Impression given:
That I am fully in control, that I know my own mind, that I won't be bullied
Reality:
I develop severe anxiety and breathlessness during the phone call, struggle to control my voice, and afterwards my hands shake for 20 minutes.
2) My office phone rings and when I pick it up, I hear Line Manager's voice on the end of it. He asks me about a work matter. I respond as helpfully and politely as I can, but using the minimum of words. I ask if there is anything else, and when the answer is negative, say goodbye.
Impression given:
That I am professional and courteous, but continuing to maintain a cool distance from Line Manager.
Reality:
I feel troubled, anxious and unsettled; my responses feel unnatural and weird; and I am extremely relieved when the phone call comes to an end.
Why I should struggle with my portrayal of Stepford Employee is quite beyond me, as I am evidently adept at seeming to cope with life. But my responses do not denote me truly.
"these indeed seem
For they are actions that a man might play;"
Maybe I would be more popular if I revealed what was going on inside my head.
But I doubt I would survive for very long.
"Oh God, YES!" I tell her. "All the time!!"
This even happens with members of my support group. Frequently, when I am giving the main talk at a meeting, someone kindly takes the trouble to inform me that when they first met me they felt instant loathing because I appeared to be someone without a care in the world.
I guess I shouldn't be altogether surprised that this reaction to me is replicated endlessly as I go through life, and most especially in the workplace. I have no defence against it. But I have never quite worked out how I so successfully manage to hide what is actually going on inside my head.
"So may the outward shows be least themselves....."
Two examples within the past 24 hours:
1) I receive a call on my personal mobile from a "gentleman" (I use the term loosely) who works for a local estate agents. He is attempting to discuss a matter which is currently being handled by my solicitor. I remind him of this and state that I won't be commenting. He becomes unpleasant and makes silly meaningless threats. I terminate the phone call.
Impression given:
That I am fully in control, that I know my own mind, that I won't be bullied
Reality:
I develop severe anxiety and breathlessness during the phone call, struggle to control my voice, and afterwards my hands shake for 20 minutes.
2) My office phone rings and when I pick it up, I hear Line Manager's voice on the end of it. He asks me about a work matter. I respond as helpfully and politely as I can, but using the minimum of words. I ask if there is anything else, and when the answer is negative, say goodbye.
Impression given:
That I am professional and courteous, but continuing to maintain a cool distance from Line Manager.
Reality:
I feel troubled, anxious and unsettled; my responses feel unnatural and weird; and I am extremely relieved when the phone call comes to an end.
Why I should struggle with my portrayal of Stepford Employee is quite beyond me, as I am evidently adept at seeming to cope with life. But my responses do not denote me truly.
"these indeed seem
For they are actions that a man might play;"
Maybe I would be more popular if I revealed what was going on inside my head.
But I doubt I would survive for very long.
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
Dancing Queens...
Due to various people (the organiser, me) being on holiday, I haven't been along to a community choir rehearsal for about three weeks. Even though I have a headache and feel very tired, I exert myself to get changed out of my work clothes and head over to the practice room. Already I feel completely at home among this group, many of whom are retired ladies.
We are finalising our "numbers" for the community sing-a-long event this Saturday. The soloist for one of the numbers pops in and we sing our harmonised accompaniment as she belts out the tune in professional bluesy style. Later, we sing our Russian monastic chant with its thrilling discordancies, and when it finishes there is a slight silence as we realise we are actually managing to sound rather good !
While I have been away, volunteers have been sought for a comedic dance number. Another of the formidable, talented, powerful ladies who drive this choir has choreographed this, which involves the shaking of tambourines and men wearing skirts (always a Dead Cert hit!). I stay behind to watch them practice, and get roped in to participate. I really don't feel it fair to take part in the actual performance, given that they have already been working on it for two weeks, but it is such fun to join in - even for a few practice rounds!
When I was at university I was lead singer in a band (like a million others). I wasn't a particularly good singer, but I was good at wearing suitably outrageous clothes, and I was smokin' on the tambourine! So for 15 glorious minutes, I wave it around, fall over my feet, and giggle along with everyone else.
But - as with everything - with repeated practice, it all starts to come together...
I get home about 10pm, and my husband remarks on my uplifted mood. I tell him what we got up to at choir, and even demonstrate a few steps. I then suggest he comes along this Saturday. He looks askance.
Husband: "What's it all about again?"
Me: "It's a community sing-a-long. We're going to be performing a few songs. And doing a tambourine dance. And then everyone is going to join in with lots of other songs, and we'll have a picnic and a really good laugh".
Husband shudders faintly. "I am going out. With Friend".
Me: "Really? You didn't mention that to me".
Husband: "I haven't mentioned it to him yet......."
We are finalising our "numbers" for the community sing-a-long event this Saturday. The soloist for one of the numbers pops in and we sing our harmonised accompaniment as she belts out the tune in professional bluesy style. Later, we sing our Russian monastic chant with its thrilling discordancies, and when it finishes there is a slight silence as we realise we are actually managing to sound rather good !
While I have been away, volunteers have been sought for a comedic dance number. Another of the formidable, talented, powerful ladies who drive this choir has choreographed this, which involves the shaking of tambourines and men wearing skirts (always a Dead Cert hit!). I stay behind to watch them practice, and get roped in to participate. I really don't feel it fair to take part in the actual performance, given that they have already been working on it for two weeks, but it is such fun to join in - even for a few practice rounds!
When I was at university I was lead singer in a band (like a million others). I wasn't a particularly good singer, but I was good at wearing suitably outrageous clothes, and I was smokin' on the tambourine! So for 15 glorious minutes, I wave it around, fall over my feet, and giggle along with everyone else.
But - as with everything - with repeated practice, it all starts to come together...
I get home about 10pm, and my husband remarks on my uplifted mood. I tell him what we got up to at choir, and even demonstrate a few steps. I then suggest he comes along this Saturday. He looks askance.
Husband: "What's it all about again?"
Me: "It's a community sing-a-long. We're going to be performing a few songs. And doing a tambourine dance. And then everyone is going to join in with lots of other songs, and we'll have a picnic and a really good laugh".
Husband shudders faintly. "I am going out. With Friend".
Me: "Really? You didn't mention that to me".
Husband: "I haven't mentioned it to him yet......."
Stepford Employee Wears the Wrong Footwear
My first day back post-leave, and I materialise in the main office in good time for my bi-monthly "management meeting" with Line Manager and New Boss.
One slight snag - neither of them are in the office. Wha??? I maintain my usual discretion ie I do not discuss the matter with colleagues, but casually flip through the pages of the signing-out book, looking for A Clue. Nuffink. Nada. None the wiser.
I am therefore forced to admit defeat and make enquiry of Maternal Colleague. Whereupon I am advised that New Boss and Line Manager departed some half an hour previously, for pastures unknown.
Oh.
There is building work going on elsewhere in the Town Hall, and the sound of drilling in the office is unendurable. So I decide to hotfoot it back to my nice quiet little office before the two managers return. I have just pressed "send" on my polite, slightly wounded, email letting them know I have now given up waiting for them and left, when they walk back into the office together through the far door.
Foiled again!
Blast and damnation.
I switch off my computer and grabbing my bag, disappear like a wraith out of the door nearest to me before they have had a chance to spot me. But just as I am on the point of leaving the Town Hall building, my Blackberry beeps and it is New Boss apologising for having forgotten about the meeting - he had relocated his previous meeting with Line Manager due to the noise.
It is quite a nice email, and so I am temporarily lulled into thinking that perhaps I can ask New Boss if he would be willing to refer me to Occupational Health. I've been thinking recently that I might benefit from a review meeting with the doctor, as I have experienced the return of some anxiety symptoms. My flight from the Town Hall is merely indicative of the fact that I am getting phobic about my department again - and as my friends well know, one of my favourite mantras is "Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway" (excellent book. And very practical....) So taking a few deep breaths and trying to settle myself, I make my way back up the stairs and slip into New Boss's office (I have, in fact, tapped on the door; but the drilling is so loud, he has not heard me).
Girding myself in Stepford Employee's loins, I explain I have returned upon seeing his message and that if he and Line Manager are available, I would be happy to hold our meeting imminently (it is now an hour since I first arrived in the office). New Boss says he is not free now. "No problem!" I say. "I will circulate some alternative dates and times".
Despite the drilling noise, which is rattling my thoughts and increasing my sense of nervousness, I am about to broach the subject of an OH referral when New Boss's gaze falls to my legs. He laughs.
"You're wearing wellies" he says.
I should mention that at this point in time, England is half-way through a two-day deluge of Biblical proportions, with rivers bursting their banks, pensioners being ferried along flooded streets in canoes, and wave-dodgers being swept out to sea, never to be seen again.
"It's raining", I reply, despite this seeming a peculiarly superfluous comment as New Boss is presently unable to see out of his own window due to the sheets of water cascading down it.
"But - you're wearing wellies!" he repeats, in the tone of a man who has never seen a woman wearing these items before.
Now this is exactly the kind of scenario which presents Stepford Employee with her most demanding challenges. Because a number of possible responses proliferate, and none of them meet public sector standards. To wit but two:
1) I am wearing wellies because I have just had to schlep over here in torrential rain for a meeting which neither of you two arses could be arsed to put in your arsing diares. And I am now going to have to schlep all the way back, getting even more soaked than I am already (except for my feet, naturally)
2) you seem to have quite an interest in wellington boots! Well, if you google "welly fetish" you will find you are not alone, and you will come across quite a few stimulating websites which should keep you preoccupied on these cold, wet evenings...
Oh God, how did I end up working in the public sector where I have to put up with people saying whatever the f*** they like to me and I am NOT ALLOWED TO SAY WHAT I WANT BACK TO THEM ON PAIN OF DEATH??? How did this happen, O Lord? How, how, how....???
Stepford Employee takes a deep breath. Stepford Employee mentally grabs hold of the little notion which popped up earlier (that of confiding in New Boss). Stepford Employee gently throttles Little Notion until it makes retching noises, drums its heels against the bones of her skull, and loses consciousness. Terminally.
"I have some shoes in my bag," I say politely, wondering why I am required to waste thirty seconds of paid employment justifying my choice of footwear. "Only I changed into my wellies as I was going out in the rain. Will that be all?"
New Boss is still immoderately entertained by my rubbery accoutrements. He barely registers my departure as he is too busy wiping tears of merriment from his eyes.
Later that night, I recite this story to my husband. He seems to find it funny. (Sometimes I think husband demonstrates a Worrying Affinity with New Boss...)
"I made a comment about your wellies this morning," he reminds me.
"That's different," I say. "You're my husband".
I forebear from reminding him that his comments were rather saucy. And that unlike New Boss's, I considered them eminently appropriate. And - ahem - most welcome.
One slight snag - neither of them are in the office. Wha??? I maintain my usual discretion ie I do not discuss the matter with colleagues, but casually flip through the pages of the signing-out book, looking for A Clue. Nuffink. Nada. None the wiser.
I am therefore forced to admit defeat and make enquiry of Maternal Colleague. Whereupon I am advised that New Boss and Line Manager departed some half an hour previously, for pastures unknown.
Oh.
There is building work going on elsewhere in the Town Hall, and the sound of drilling in the office is unendurable. So I decide to hotfoot it back to my nice quiet little office before the two managers return. I have just pressed "send" on my polite, slightly wounded, email letting them know I have now given up waiting for them and left, when they walk back into the office together through the far door.
Foiled again!
Blast and damnation.
I switch off my computer and grabbing my bag, disappear like a wraith out of the door nearest to me before they have had a chance to spot me. But just as I am on the point of leaving the Town Hall building, my Blackberry beeps and it is New Boss apologising for having forgotten about the meeting - he had relocated his previous meeting with Line Manager due to the noise.
It is quite a nice email, and so I am temporarily lulled into thinking that perhaps I can ask New Boss if he would be willing to refer me to Occupational Health. I've been thinking recently that I might benefit from a review meeting with the doctor, as I have experienced the return of some anxiety symptoms. My flight from the Town Hall is merely indicative of the fact that I am getting phobic about my department again - and as my friends well know, one of my favourite mantras is "Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway" (excellent book. And very practical....) So taking a few deep breaths and trying to settle myself, I make my way back up the stairs and slip into New Boss's office (I have, in fact, tapped on the door; but the drilling is so loud, he has not heard me).
Girding myself in Stepford Employee's loins, I explain I have returned upon seeing his message and that if he and Line Manager are available, I would be happy to hold our meeting imminently (it is now an hour since I first arrived in the office). New Boss says he is not free now. "No problem!" I say. "I will circulate some alternative dates and times".
Despite the drilling noise, which is rattling my thoughts and increasing my sense of nervousness, I am about to broach the subject of an OH referral when New Boss's gaze falls to my legs. He laughs.
"You're wearing wellies" he says.
I should mention that at this point in time, England is half-way through a two-day deluge of Biblical proportions, with rivers bursting their banks, pensioners being ferried along flooded streets in canoes, and wave-dodgers being swept out to sea, never to be seen again.
"It's raining", I reply, despite this seeming a peculiarly superfluous comment as New Boss is presently unable to see out of his own window due to the sheets of water cascading down it.
"But - you're wearing wellies!" he repeats, in the tone of a man who has never seen a woman wearing these items before.
Now this is exactly the kind of scenario which presents Stepford Employee with her most demanding challenges. Because a number of possible responses proliferate, and none of them meet public sector standards. To wit but two:
1) I am wearing wellies because I have just had to schlep over here in torrential rain for a meeting which neither of you two arses could be arsed to put in your arsing diares. And I am now going to have to schlep all the way back, getting even more soaked than I am already (except for my feet, naturally)
2) you seem to have quite an interest in wellington boots! Well, if you google "welly fetish" you will find you are not alone, and you will come across quite a few stimulating websites which should keep you preoccupied on these cold, wet evenings...
Oh God, how did I end up working in the public sector where I have to put up with people saying whatever the f*** they like to me and I am NOT ALLOWED TO SAY WHAT I WANT BACK TO THEM ON PAIN OF DEATH??? How did this happen, O Lord? How, how, how....???
Stepford Employee takes a deep breath. Stepford Employee mentally grabs hold of the little notion which popped up earlier (that of confiding in New Boss). Stepford Employee gently throttles Little Notion until it makes retching noises, drums its heels against the bones of her skull, and loses consciousness. Terminally.
"I have some shoes in my bag," I say politely, wondering why I am required to waste thirty seconds of paid employment justifying my choice of footwear. "Only I changed into my wellies as I was going out in the rain. Will that be all?"
New Boss is still immoderately entertained by my rubbery accoutrements. He barely registers my departure as he is too busy wiping tears of merriment from his eyes.
Later that night, I recite this story to my husband. He seems to find it funny. (Sometimes I think husband demonstrates a Worrying Affinity with New Boss...)
"I made a comment about your wellies this morning," he reminds me.
"That's different," I say. "You're my husband".
I forebear from reminding him that his comments were rather saucy. And that unlike New Boss's, I considered them eminently appropriate. And - ahem - most welcome.
Sunday, 10 June 2012
Animadversions and Disrespectful Allusions...
On many occasions I start watching a film with my husband, and ten minutes after it has begun he claims that we have seen it before. I always deny having any knowledge of the film in question, despite him being able to a) say what is going to happen b) tell me who dunnit and c) quote imminent bits of dialogue.
I am having similar sensations as I make my way through The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. I would swear I have never read this novel before, but it all seems very familiar somehow. Once I have succumbed to the rhythm of Anne Bronte's writing style (surely some of the longest and most convoluted sentences ever written), I start to have a sense of deja-vu about the relationship between Gilbert Markham and Helen Graham, and the characters surrounding them (the Millwards, Mr Lawrence, Jane and Richard Wilson...).
Is it because I have actually read it, back in the day when literature was my chiefest study...?
Or is it because it plays on themes of alcoholism and temperance?
Or it is because it is so reminiscent of my experience over the past year ?!!?
Here is Gilbert Markham writing of an evening's "entertainment" (a soiree at his mother's house):
"I now recollected having seen Mrs Wilson, in the early part of the evening, edging her chair close up to my mother, and bending forward, evidently in the delivery of some important confidential intelligence; and from the incessant wagging of her head, the frequent distortions of her wrinkled physiognomy, and the winking and malicious twinkle of her little ugly eyes, I judged it was some spicy piece of scandal that engaged her powers; and from the cautious privacy of the communication I supposed some person then present was the luckless object of her calumnies: and from all these tokens, together with my mother's looks and gestures of mingled horror and incredulity, I now concluded that object to have been Mrs Graham."
Now, quite apart from being an excellent example of Anne's looooong sentences, this is also a perfect illustration of what goes on daily in what The Decent People in the office call Whispering Corner ! This is the spot occupied by Spiteful Manager, and frequently visited by The Others (primarily Attention Seeker, Ex-Army Man and Politician's Daughter). So repellent is the incessant sotto-voce hissing which emanates from this quarter, that Former Boss once sent round an email instructing staff to stop whispering. (Not that anyone took any notice, and not that he ever bothered to do anything about it again !)
Gilbert Markham, trying to reassure Mrs Graham in a later scene, advises her:
"..their shallow minds can hold no great ideas, and their light heads are carried away by trivialities that would not move a better-furnished skull; and their only alternative to such discourse is to plunge over head and ears into the slough of scandal - which is their chief delight."
Way to go, Ms Bronte !!
I ponder on the fact that 19th Century literature repeatedly shows The Gossip as someone to be ridiculed, when she is not playing a more sinister role as the poisonous ruiner of lives. From Jane Austen to Mrs Gaskell, these spiteful and malicious characters are universally derided.
In our department, they rule the roost!
Perhaps someday someone will write a book about them.
I am having similar sensations as I make my way through The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. I would swear I have never read this novel before, but it all seems very familiar somehow. Once I have succumbed to the rhythm of Anne Bronte's writing style (surely some of the longest and most convoluted sentences ever written), I start to have a sense of deja-vu about the relationship between Gilbert Markham and Helen Graham, and the characters surrounding them (the Millwards, Mr Lawrence, Jane and Richard Wilson...).
Is it because I have actually read it, back in the day when literature was my chiefest study...?
Or is it because it plays on themes of alcoholism and temperance?
Or it is because it is so reminiscent of my experience over the past year ?!!?
Here is Gilbert Markham writing of an evening's "entertainment" (a soiree at his mother's house):
"I now recollected having seen Mrs Wilson, in the early part of the evening, edging her chair close up to my mother, and bending forward, evidently in the delivery of some important confidential intelligence; and from the incessant wagging of her head, the frequent distortions of her wrinkled physiognomy, and the winking and malicious twinkle of her little ugly eyes, I judged it was some spicy piece of scandal that engaged her powers; and from the cautious privacy of the communication I supposed some person then present was the luckless object of her calumnies: and from all these tokens, together with my mother's looks and gestures of mingled horror and incredulity, I now concluded that object to have been Mrs Graham."
Now, quite apart from being an excellent example of Anne's looooong sentences, this is also a perfect illustration of what goes on daily in what The Decent People in the office call Whispering Corner ! This is the spot occupied by Spiteful Manager, and frequently visited by The Others (primarily Attention Seeker, Ex-Army Man and Politician's Daughter). So repellent is the incessant sotto-voce hissing which emanates from this quarter, that Former Boss once sent round an email instructing staff to stop whispering. (Not that anyone took any notice, and not that he ever bothered to do anything about it again !)
Gilbert Markham, trying to reassure Mrs Graham in a later scene, advises her:
"..their shallow minds can hold no great ideas, and their light heads are carried away by trivialities that would not move a better-furnished skull; and their only alternative to such discourse is to plunge over head and ears into the slough of scandal - which is their chief delight."
Way to go, Ms Bronte !!
I ponder on the fact that 19th Century literature repeatedly shows The Gossip as someone to be ridiculed, when she is not playing a more sinister role as the poisonous ruiner of lives. From Jane Austen to Mrs Gaskell, these spiteful and malicious characters are universally derided.
In our department, they rule the roost!
Perhaps someday someone will write a book about them.
The Swish of the Curtain
Back in London and back to rehearsals. It's the first time the entire cast has got together, rather than working on scenes in separate groups, and for the first time we can see how the whole play is assembled.
It's also the first time we have had a chance to perform on stage as opposed to in a motley assortment of rehearsal rooms.
It's been 25 years since I acted on stage - one of the reasons why I have been careful not to tell anyone I am doing this. I am being evasive with friends who wonder why I am not as available as usual; and I suspect the only audience member I know will turn out to be my mother (bless her). Even my husband has been dissuaded - which I suspect suits him, as amateur theatricals are not really his cup of tea.
But oh ! they are very much MY cup of tea.
I have loved acting ever since I was a child.
When I first set foot in this particular theatre, I felt totally overwhelmed by the feelings of nostalgia and familiarity. And I also felt very sad that I had waited so long to come home. It is my very own Blue Door Theatre Company come to life, populated by older versions of Maddy, Vicky, Lyn and Sandra; and Nigel, Jeremy and Bulldog. People with full time jobs appear to be devoting every spare minute to directing, producing, building sets and rigging lights. I am surrounded by total commitment and dedication. And people who wear extremely interesting clothes !! (I continue to play it safe in jeans...)
There is a social side of this activity but much as I like this group of people, I never hang about after rehearsals as this tends to involve going for a drink. I prefer to say my goodbyes and head off home, or to a meeting of my support group. This doesn't seem to present any impediment to my popularity - I get the feeling that these people like me well enough; just as I like them. It's really pretty easy to get on with people.
Once again, I find myself making the comparison with my work place, and the bewildering way The Jackals suddenly decided to make me the target of their venom.
Am I just working within an environment which is wrong for me? Was I insane to abandon the creative life entirely? Am I simply a fish out of water?
A Fish is who looking for her Swish.....???
It's also the first time we have had a chance to perform on stage as opposed to in a motley assortment of rehearsal rooms.
It's been 25 years since I acted on stage - one of the reasons why I have been careful not to tell anyone I am doing this. I am being evasive with friends who wonder why I am not as available as usual; and I suspect the only audience member I know will turn out to be my mother (bless her). Even my husband has been dissuaded - which I suspect suits him, as amateur theatricals are not really his cup of tea.
But oh ! they are very much MY cup of tea.
I have loved acting ever since I was a child.
When I first set foot in this particular theatre, I felt totally overwhelmed by the feelings of nostalgia and familiarity. And I also felt very sad that I had waited so long to come home. It is my very own Blue Door Theatre Company come to life, populated by older versions of Maddy, Vicky, Lyn and Sandra; and Nigel, Jeremy and Bulldog. People with full time jobs appear to be devoting every spare minute to directing, producing, building sets and rigging lights. I am surrounded by total commitment and dedication. And people who wear extremely interesting clothes !! (I continue to play it safe in jeans...)
There is a social side of this activity but much as I like this group of people, I never hang about after rehearsals as this tends to involve going for a drink. I prefer to say my goodbyes and head off home, or to a meeting of my support group. This doesn't seem to present any impediment to my popularity - I get the feeling that these people like me well enough; just as I like them. It's really pretty easy to get on with people.
Once again, I find myself making the comparison with my work place, and the bewildering way The Jackals suddenly decided to make me the target of their venom.
Am I just working within an environment which is wrong for me? Was I insane to abandon the creative life entirely? Am I simply a fish out of water?
A Fish is who looking for her Swish.....???
Saturday, 9 June 2012
Confusing Kindness with Stupidity...
A great chat coming back in the car last night. I have known my fellow companion for almost 20 years - he is my husband's closest friend. He tells me a tale about recently being deceived by a neighbour with regards to a planning application. I have such a similar tale to relate myself, it is almost spooky !
In both instances, we dispensed with the services of solicitors after having been assured by the other party that they were entirely trustworthy and that we could rely upon what they said. Only to later discover that they had lied through their teeth.
There is clearly a Moral lurking in here somewhere....
My husband's friend says "I worry that I might be seen as too nice".
What a terrible indictment of humanity, I think.
That in order to survive, we have to be less nice.
Cripes.
I tell him that when I discovered the other party had lied to me, I experienced something akin to mild shock symptoms. I simply could not believe that someone could have looked me in the eye, smiled, and asked after my family; while all the time they were plotting to do the dirty on me. Husband's Friend admits to being assailed by similar sense of unreality at the point when light dawned.
When I spoke to my GP about the impact of Line Manager's conduct upon me, he asked what I would have done in similar circumstances. I said I would have admitted to what I had done and told the truth. Whereupon GP laughed (quite a lot, as I recall !!) and assured me that 99% of people would act precisely as Line Manager had acted - ie they would have done everything possible to save their own skins, regardless of the damage to other people.
Oh - New Boss took a similar view! When I tried to explain to him that my relationship with Line Manager was now damaged beyond repair because of what he had done, he airily informed me "you would have done the same".
SORRY. NO. I WOULDN'T HAVE DONE.
And neither would my husband, or Husband's Friend.
Or any of the people I choose to spend my time with, quite honestly.
It's not that we are saints. It's not that we are religious zealots. It's not that we are morally righteous (although I'm sure it suits others to call us so). It is simply that we have all found we cannot live any other way and live with ourselves.
So - yes, I still find it painful, and shocking, and upsetting when I am lied to, or abused, or mistreated. But eventually I get over it. And when I do, I am entirely capable of standing up for myself.
Because the other thing Husband's Friend and I talked about last night was how outraged the other parties always are when we finally react to having been deceived. When we finally contact solicitors, phone the police, take out a grievance, or just turn round and say NO. It is as if our initial openness and kindness has lulled the other parties into thinking we are totally unable to stand up for ourselves, and exist just to be exploited.
As Life Coach Colleague once so brilliantly phrased it:
"People confuse kindness with stupidity".
But only for so long.
In both instances, we dispensed with the services of solicitors after having been assured by the other party that they were entirely trustworthy and that we could rely upon what they said. Only to later discover that they had lied through their teeth.
There is clearly a Moral lurking in here somewhere....
My husband's friend says "I worry that I might be seen as too nice".
What a terrible indictment of humanity, I think.
That in order to survive, we have to be less nice.
Cripes.
I tell him that when I discovered the other party had lied to me, I experienced something akin to mild shock symptoms. I simply could not believe that someone could have looked me in the eye, smiled, and asked after my family; while all the time they were plotting to do the dirty on me. Husband's Friend admits to being assailed by similar sense of unreality at the point when light dawned.
When I spoke to my GP about the impact of Line Manager's conduct upon me, he asked what I would have done in similar circumstances. I said I would have admitted to what I had done and told the truth. Whereupon GP laughed (quite a lot, as I recall !!) and assured me that 99% of people would act precisely as Line Manager had acted - ie they would have done everything possible to save their own skins, regardless of the damage to other people.
Oh - New Boss took a similar view! When I tried to explain to him that my relationship with Line Manager was now damaged beyond repair because of what he had done, he airily informed me "you would have done the same".
SORRY. NO. I WOULDN'T HAVE DONE.
And neither would my husband, or Husband's Friend.
Or any of the people I choose to spend my time with, quite honestly.
It's not that we are saints. It's not that we are religious zealots. It's not that we are morally righteous (although I'm sure it suits others to call us so). It is simply that we have all found we cannot live any other way and live with ourselves.
So - yes, I still find it painful, and shocking, and upsetting when I am lied to, or abused, or mistreated. But eventually I get over it. And when I do, I am entirely capable of standing up for myself.
Because the other thing Husband's Friend and I talked about last night was how outraged the other parties always are when we finally react to having been deceived. When we finally contact solicitors, phone the police, take out a grievance, or just turn round and say NO. It is as if our initial openness and kindness has lulled the other parties into thinking we are totally unable to stand up for ourselves, and exist just to be exploited.
As Life Coach Colleague once so brilliantly phrased it:
"People confuse kindness with stupidity".
But only for so long.
Friday, 8 June 2012
Living in the Present
Scotland. It's not Siberia so I don't know why I seem unable to access the internet where I am staying. After endeavouring fruitlessly to set up a laptop station in every room in the house, I give up and concentrate upon just living in the present. This involves undertaking various tasks for elderly relatives - pinning up rose bushes threatening to overwhelm the path, going to Morrisons, and holding a ladder while my husband makes a precarious ascent into the loft.
I am struggling to live in the present right now, because my mind keeps sailing off to far flung shores. Shores where the map is marked "here be dragons".
I really REALLY don't want to go back to work. Or rather - I really don't want to set foot back in the main office (because the actual day-to-day work is fine). But in two days time I have to sit through another pointless "management meeting" with New Boss and Line Manager which will necessitate A Visit To The Town Hall. I am starting to feel extremely phobic about this encounter - probably because of the sheer impossibility of me being able to communicate how I am really feeling. Because I don't trust these people and they have no concern for my well-being.
To illustrate the above, and to demonstrate that I am not a completely paranoid headcase:
Last September, I went to see Former Boss and told him I felt totally unable to cope with attending a meeting the following day in the company of Line Manager - someone who was at the time merrily fabricating lies about me in order to defend his own invidious actions (later to be found worthy of a formal reprimand). Former Boss's sensitive response to my heartfelt and desperate plea for his support and understanding was to insist that I attend the meeting!
Eight months later, memories of sitting through that meeting for ninety minutes, battling feelings of chronic anxiety and panic, are still all-too horribly vivid. And the signs which prefaced that last incident are beginning to surface again.
- I'm lying awake at night, unable to sleep
- I am feeling breathless and anxious
- There is a sensation of a giant hand pressing on my chest
- And my thoughts run round and round in endless circles
Yes, I know these are symptoms of chronic anxiety and stress. I know they are just irrational feelings which do not represent reality. But despite this knowledge, I am struggling to be master of my own kingdom.
Until 5pm, when my husband's friend rings and asks if I would like to come to a meeting of our "support group" with him that evening.
Would I ?
Would I ??!
The meeting is only 90 minutes long, but the half hour chat in the car on the way there, the half hour chat on the way back, and the talk over tea all three of us have back at the house together, represents 4 hours of living in the present and provides my anxiety with the best curative treatment available.
Current Symptoms = mild to moderate
Prognosis = excellent
I am struggling to live in the present right now, because my mind keeps sailing off to far flung shores. Shores where the map is marked "here be dragons".
I really REALLY don't want to go back to work. Or rather - I really don't want to set foot back in the main office (because the actual day-to-day work is fine). But in two days time I have to sit through another pointless "management meeting" with New Boss and Line Manager which will necessitate A Visit To The Town Hall. I am starting to feel extremely phobic about this encounter - probably because of the sheer impossibility of me being able to communicate how I am really feeling. Because I don't trust these people and they have no concern for my well-being.
To illustrate the above, and to demonstrate that I am not a completely paranoid headcase:
Last September, I went to see Former Boss and told him I felt totally unable to cope with attending a meeting the following day in the company of Line Manager - someone who was at the time merrily fabricating lies about me in order to defend his own invidious actions (later to be found worthy of a formal reprimand). Former Boss's sensitive response to my heartfelt and desperate plea for his support and understanding was to insist that I attend the meeting!
Eight months later, memories of sitting through that meeting for ninety minutes, battling feelings of chronic anxiety and panic, are still all-too horribly vivid. And the signs which prefaced that last incident are beginning to surface again.
- I'm lying awake at night, unable to sleep
- I am feeling breathless and anxious
- There is a sensation of a giant hand pressing on my chest
- And my thoughts run round and round in endless circles
Yes, I know these are symptoms of chronic anxiety and stress. I know they are just irrational feelings which do not represent reality. But despite this knowledge, I am struggling to be master of my own kingdom.
Until 5pm, when my husband's friend rings and asks if I would like to come to a meeting of our "support group" with him that evening.
Would I ?
Would I ??!
The meeting is only 90 minutes long, but the half hour chat in the car on the way there, the half hour chat on the way back, and the talk over tea all three of us have back at the house together, represents 4 hours of living in the present and provides my anxiety with the best curative treatment available.
Current Symptoms = mild to moderate
Prognosis = excellent
Wednesday, 6 June 2012
Keeping One's Own Counsel
I was in Sainsburys about ten years ago when I bumped into someone from Before. As in - the world I used to inhabit prior to the life-changing experience which led me eventually to a new "career" (I use this term extremely loosely) in local government.
"Doncha miss it?" she said to me, juggling two bottles of Pinot Grigio, a ready meal and three packets of Resolve. "Doncha miss all of it?"
Well, no. Funnily enough I don't miss the press nights and first nights, the parties and piss-ups, the decadence and the drudge. Because for me, they came with lots of nasty little strings attached.
There was an extraordinary lack of inhibition in that world - everyone knew who was fornicating with whom, for how long, and probably in precisely what positions. I don't suppose I was any less prone to unedited verbiage than the rest of them. After all, at an early meeting of my "support group" I came across someone else from Before who said "I remember you. You were f***ing MAD". (And there was me thinking I was a much-envied member of London's glitterati....)
Yet at work now, I have the reputation of being someone "extremely private" (so sayeth Personnel, and she should know). And why do I avoid telling people at work much about myself? Well, let's see:
- I guess I feel I have Things To Hide
- I work in an environment dominated by middle-aged men in suits who are already about as sexist and patronising as any I have ever come across - so why stack the odds any higher?
- I have no confidence that I would be viewed with compassion or understanding; I rather believe that I will be judged. And harshly.
- I am a different person now, so talking about the past would actually misrepresent me
- I just want work to be about the work
But - oh dear! - some years ago I broke my own code of silence. I actually confided in a female colleague - one I thought I was close to and could trust. So it was the most horrible shock to realise that Remora (for yes, it was she) was not who she pretended to be. And that while I had been blithely entrusting my secrets to her, she had been carefully storing them up for future use.
Extremely private? Sheesh, you bet your sweet bippy I am "extremely private". I am happy to talk about any aspect of Before with my friends, at meetings of my support group, and with the women I am helping. Hell - I have stood up in front of 200 strangers and talked about Before. But work is entirely different.
At work I am just the Stepford Employee.
She only exists in the present.
There is no Before.
"Doncha miss it?" she said to me, juggling two bottles of Pinot Grigio, a ready meal and three packets of Resolve. "Doncha miss all of it?"
Well, no. Funnily enough I don't miss the press nights and first nights, the parties and piss-ups, the decadence and the drudge. Because for me, they came with lots of nasty little strings attached.
There was an extraordinary lack of inhibition in that world - everyone knew who was fornicating with whom, for how long, and probably in precisely what positions. I don't suppose I was any less prone to unedited verbiage than the rest of them. After all, at an early meeting of my "support group" I came across someone else from Before who said "I remember you. You were f***ing MAD". (And there was me thinking I was a much-envied member of London's glitterati....)
Yet at work now, I have the reputation of being someone "extremely private" (so sayeth Personnel, and she should know). And why do I avoid telling people at work much about myself? Well, let's see:
- I guess I feel I have Things To Hide
- I work in an environment dominated by middle-aged men in suits who are already about as sexist and patronising as any I have ever come across - so why stack the odds any higher?
- I have no confidence that I would be viewed with compassion or understanding; I rather believe that I will be judged. And harshly.
- I am a different person now, so talking about the past would actually misrepresent me
- I just want work to be about the work
But - oh dear! - some years ago I broke my own code of silence. I actually confided in a female colleague - one I thought I was close to and could trust. So it was the most horrible shock to realise that Remora (for yes, it was she) was not who she pretended to be. And that while I had been blithely entrusting my secrets to her, she had been carefully storing them up for future use.
Extremely private? Sheesh, you bet your sweet bippy I am "extremely private". I am happy to talk about any aspect of Before with my friends, at meetings of my support group, and with the women I am helping. Hell - I have stood up in front of 200 strangers and talked about Before. But work is entirely different.
At work I am just the Stepford Employee.
She only exists in the present.
There is no Before.
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
Keeping One's Own Company
Anne Bronte is buried in St Mary's Churchyard, Scarborough.
I stand at the top of the old graveyard, trying to ignore the fact that the lower half of it has now been pressed into service as a car park, and think about Anne, her sisters, and their utterly extraordinary lives.
Despite the cars, it is a tranquil resting place, on top of a headland which looks down upon the sea; and because it is almost dusk, there are very few people about. I'm glad that I have had the opportunity to come and stand here, if only for a few moments, while my husband and his mother patiently wait for me on a bench on Queen's Parade.
I stopped reading for pleasure about two years ago. I stopped reading because (I claimed) I never had time, that my head had too much occupying it for me to concentrate, and that I left such long gaps between picking up the book I was reading, that I invariably had to go back to the start to remind myself of what was going on.
The truth was that I allowed work to totally take over my life.
Which was (sort of) fine until it all went wrong and I realised what a bloody, stupid fool I had been.
Last week I finished work early ("early" as in - ummm - 2pm !!) and went off to spend the afternoon at the V & A. I split my time between the Ballgowns exhibition, and an unexpectedly fascinating exhibition about the work of the Heatherwick Studios. As always, it felt so good to be transported into different worlds, populated by different characters.
I could have asked someone to come with me. And sometimes I do, because it is lovely to share these experiences with someone. But at other times, I like to be on my own. I am very comfortable with my own company. Perhaps too much so.
When I applied for my current job some years ago, I was warned that much of the work would be away from the main office, often working self-reliantly and on one's own. I assured the interviewers that this would present no problems for me; and over time thus it proved, . But about two years ago, I accepted greater responsibilities which brought me into contact with the main office staff. Including The Others....
Yikes.
"Fall back! Fall back!!!"
Sound the retreat.
And get the f*** outta there.
I take one last look at Anne Bronte's battered headstone, and make my way out of the graveyard to rejoin my companions.
Later that night I download (FREE by the way!!) "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" onto my Kindle.
Even better - I actually start reading it.
I stand at the top of the old graveyard, trying to ignore the fact that the lower half of it has now been pressed into service as a car park, and think about Anne, her sisters, and their utterly extraordinary lives.
Despite the cars, it is a tranquil resting place, on top of a headland which looks down upon the sea; and because it is almost dusk, there are very few people about. I'm glad that I have had the opportunity to come and stand here, if only for a few moments, while my husband and his mother patiently wait for me on a bench on Queen's Parade.
I stopped reading for pleasure about two years ago. I stopped reading because (I claimed) I never had time, that my head had too much occupying it for me to concentrate, and that I left such long gaps between picking up the book I was reading, that I invariably had to go back to the start to remind myself of what was going on.
The truth was that I allowed work to totally take over my life.
Which was (sort of) fine until it all went wrong and I realised what a bloody, stupid fool I had been.
Last week I finished work early ("early" as in - ummm - 2pm !!) and went off to spend the afternoon at the V & A. I split my time between the Ballgowns exhibition, and an unexpectedly fascinating exhibition about the work of the Heatherwick Studios. As always, it felt so good to be transported into different worlds, populated by different characters.
I could have asked someone to come with me. And sometimes I do, because it is lovely to share these experiences with someone. But at other times, I like to be on my own. I am very comfortable with my own company. Perhaps too much so.
When I applied for my current job some years ago, I was warned that much of the work would be away from the main office, often working self-reliantly and on one's own. I assured the interviewers that this would present no problems for me; and over time thus it proved, . But about two years ago, I accepted greater responsibilities which brought me into contact with the main office staff. Including The Others....
Yikes.
"Fall back! Fall back!!!"
Sound the retreat.
And get the f*** outta there.
I take one last look at Anne Bronte's battered headstone, and make my way out of the graveyard to rejoin my companions.
Later that night I download (FREE by the way!!) "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" onto my Kindle.
Even better - I actually start reading it.
"Bully In Sight"
I used to say that all one needed to get through life was a library card (this was in the days before the internet was ever invented, so we are talking A Long Time Ago). I was pretty confident that if I needed to know how to deal with a situation, or to understand something I was struggling with, that someone, somewhere, would have written a book about it and I just had to locate this resource and I would be ok.
Google has replaced the library - and in fact libraries themselves seem to be rapidly heading towards extinction, as most of the ones round our way are rebranding themselves as "learning centres".
But the principle still applies....
When things were getting really bad last year at work - I mean "really bad" as in: I couldn't sleep, I felt continually baffled, and I started suffering from chronic anxiety - I started googling "Workplace Bullying". And amongst a lot of helpful and insightful material, I came across several mentions of a book called "Bully In Sight" by Tim Field.
Getting hold of it was slightly complicated, as it is not available in bookshops and each order has to be specially printed. But - oh my goodness, it was the best £15 I have spent in a long LONG time.
There is something horribly shaming to be a competent, professional adult in the workplace who suddenly becomes the target of bullies. Which is why, I guess, that most people in the situation I found myself in eventually decide to leave their jobs rather than undergo the agony of confrontation and challenge. Perhaps I should have joined their numbers - except that at the time I still really loved my job.
But being bullied at work - subjected to a daily barrage of petty spite, incessant rumour-mongering, and gleefully pointed ostracisms in a place where I had for many years felt happy and safe - was horrendous. So I am very grateful to Tim Field for writing his book and helping me to understand:
- I was not the only adult unlucky enough to experience this treatment in the workplace
- My distressed reaction to it was normal; not weird, psychotic or strange
- There were some strategies I could adopt to try and tackle the bullying...
- ....but they came with very high risks attached.
I certainly don't blame Tim Field (God rest his soul, for he died some years ago) or his book for the fact that things worked out so badly for me. I belive they would have worked out far worse if I had not, in so many instances, been forewarned about how other people - particularly The Hierarchy - were likely to respond.
Yes, I felt disappointed.
Yes, I felt disenchanted.
Yes, I felt totally and utterly disillusioned.
But - thanks to Tim Field - I never felt in the slightest bit surprised.
Google has replaced the library - and in fact libraries themselves seem to be rapidly heading towards extinction, as most of the ones round our way are rebranding themselves as "learning centres".
But the principle still applies....
When things were getting really bad last year at work - I mean "really bad" as in: I couldn't sleep, I felt continually baffled, and I started suffering from chronic anxiety - I started googling "Workplace Bullying". And amongst a lot of helpful and insightful material, I came across several mentions of a book called "Bully In Sight" by Tim Field.
Getting hold of it was slightly complicated, as it is not available in bookshops and each order has to be specially printed. But - oh my goodness, it was the best £15 I have spent in a long LONG time.
There is something horribly shaming to be a competent, professional adult in the workplace who suddenly becomes the target of bullies. Which is why, I guess, that most people in the situation I found myself in eventually decide to leave their jobs rather than undergo the agony of confrontation and challenge. Perhaps I should have joined their numbers - except that at the time I still really loved my job.
But being bullied at work - subjected to a daily barrage of petty spite, incessant rumour-mongering, and gleefully pointed ostracisms in a place where I had for many years felt happy and safe - was horrendous. So I am very grateful to Tim Field for writing his book and helping me to understand:
- I was not the only adult unlucky enough to experience this treatment in the workplace
- My distressed reaction to it was normal; not weird, psychotic or strange
- There were some strategies I could adopt to try and tackle the bullying...
- ....but they came with very high risks attached.
I certainly don't blame Tim Field (God rest his soul, for he died some years ago) or his book for the fact that things worked out so badly for me. I belive they would have worked out far worse if I had not, in so many instances, been forewarned about how other people - particularly The Hierarchy - were likely to respond.
Yes, I felt disappointed.
Yes, I felt disenchanted.
Yes, I felt totally and utterly disillusioned.
But - thanks to Tim Field - I never felt in the slightest bit surprised.
Monday, 4 June 2012
Whitby, Whelks and Wave Dodging
Whitby on a Bank Holiday Monday is insane. I can see that it is probably a most delightful little harbour town; but after fifteen minutes of trying to push against a heaving tide of humanity with an elderly person in tow, I am desperate to leave it.
The only redeeming feature is the dogs. I have never seen so many dogs!! North Yorkshire would appear to be totally awash with poodles and pugs, setters and shi-tzus, labradors and lurchers. I am so distracted by cute little whiskery faces, that I don't know which way to turn.
But nonetheless it is a relief when, after our whelks, we finally decide we have all had enough; and head back across the moors to Scarborough. This is the best part of the day - when the sun has finally broken through the cloud, and sends shadows scudding across the fields and gorse.
Parking up on Marine Drive, we decide to walk right round to South Sands where there is a cafe selling "proper" (ie Italian) coffee. Mother-in-law goes great guns, and at times I am struggling to keep up. On the walk back, we idly remark upon the damp patches on the boardwalk without carrying this observation through to its logical conclusion. Cause and effect are amply demonstrated only minutes later, when a huge wave washes over the sea wall and completely drenches all three of us, as well as a family walking a few paces ahead.
Mother-in-law has incredible spirit and joie-de-vivre. Despite her "holiday" perm being ruined, and her hearing aid having packed up in protest, she laughs louder than any of us. Except possibly myself. I am so saturated, that not an inch of my clothing has escaped the deluge.
As we drip back to the car, belatedly reading the signs which warn of waves overshooting the boardwalk, I think how wonderful it feels to really really laugh. It might surprise some of the people I work with, but I laugh a lot! I laugh in meetings of my support group (possibly some of the most entertaining experiences of my week). I laugh in rehearsals of the community choir, when the men astound us all by getting it right first time. My sisters and I spent most of our time in Valencia laughing. And I laugh constantly when I am with my husband, because he is still the funniest, sharpest and wittiest person I have ever met.
I would love to laugh at work.
But I never do.
Not any more.
Pity.
The only redeeming feature is the dogs. I have never seen so many dogs!! North Yorkshire would appear to be totally awash with poodles and pugs, setters and shi-tzus, labradors and lurchers. I am so distracted by cute little whiskery faces, that I don't know which way to turn.
But nonetheless it is a relief when, after our whelks, we finally decide we have all had enough; and head back across the moors to Scarborough. This is the best part of the day - when the sun has finally broken through the cloud, and sends shadows scudding across the fields and gorse.
Parking up on Marine Drive, we decide to walk right round to South Sands where there is a cafe selling "proper" (ie Italian) coffee. Mother-in-law goes great guns, and at times I am struggling to keep up. On the walk back, we idly remark upon the damp patches on the boardwalk without carrying this observation through to its logical conclusion. Cause and effect are amply demonstrated only minutes later, when a huge wave washes over the sea wall and completely drenches all three of us, as well as a family walking a few paces ahead.
Mother-in-law has incredible spirit and joie-de-vivre. Despite her "holiday" perm being ruined, and her hearing aid having packed up in protest, she laughs louder than any of us. Except possibly myself. I am so saturated, that not an inch of my clothing has escaped the deluge.
As we drip back to the car, belatedly reading the signs which warn of waves overshooting the boardwalk, I think how wonderful it feels to really really laugh. It might surprise some of the people I work with, but I laugh a lot! I laugh in meetings of my support group (possibly some of the most entertaining experiences of my week). I laugh in rehearsals of the community choir, when the men astound us all by getting it right first time. My sisters and I spent most of our time in Valencia laughing. And I laugh constantly when I am with my husband, because he is still the funniest, sharpest and wittiest person I have ever met.
I would love to laugh at work.
But I never do.
Not any more.
Pity.
Sunday, 3 June 2012
The Ronseal People
We have lunch in the Grand Hotel. It is fantastically good value and we emerge barely able to walk, but having spent only £20. Not each; that's for all of us !
The waitress is a woman in her 50's who radiates warmth and good humour. When she checks in with our table for the fourth time and asks "is there anything else you'd like, love?", I say "yes please - would you adopt me?"
But quietly, after she has gone, you understand...
The people up here are fabulous. They are direct, funny and real. They are Ronseal People - you get exactly what it says on the tin.
New Boss is from these parts, and I am starting to understand why I see that expression of frustration upon his face when he is trying to communicate with me. I am sure that to him I represent all that is worst about Southerners. Let us not forget that I am (according to him) "quite posh"; that apart from our initial talk in my office I have stopped telling him what I really think and feel; and that his attempts to provoke some kind of spontaneous response from me ("you just need to deal with your demons") are proving totally fruitless. So I am sure that to him Stepford Employee represents less a compliant model of femininity, and more an uptight, snooty, frosty-knickered bint.
Well, tough.
I have thought for some time that if I met New Boss in any other circumstances we would get on famously. But he plays a specific role in my life - a managerial role which dictates a particular type of relationship.
Former Boss was a blunt and direct Yorkshireman too. I thought that meant he would protect my interests, maintain confidentiality, and put a stop to the appalling behaviour of The Others. Hell - I trusted him.
A week before he retired, Former Boss approached me in the main office and said "are you coming to my leaving party?" I replied non-committally; to which he responded "I can completely understand if you don't want to". In front of other people, which was quite something.
In the end I went to his party (figuring a decade under his command ought to be acknowledged), only to have him seek me out and say "I'm sorry for everything that has happened to you", and telling me that he had never intended to deliberately cause me harm.
"Too little, too late" seems to have become this year's motto !!!
But I could have done without all the apologies.
I'd have preferred things not to have happened in the first place.
New Boss knows none of this. And never will.
Insanity = doing the same thing and expecting a different result. So sadly I will never connect with New Boss in the way I connect with all his other countrymen and women.
Because once bitten, twice shy.
The waitress is a woman in her 50's who radiates warmth and good humour. When she checks in with our table for the fourth time and asks "is there anything else you'd like, love?", I say "yes please - would you adopt me?"
But quietly, after she has gone, you understand...
The people up here are fabulous. They are direct, funny and real. They are Ronseal People - you get exactly what it says on the tin.
New Boss is from these parts, and I am starting to understand why I see that expression of frustration upon his face when he is trying to communicate with me. I am sure that to him I represent all that is worst about Southerners. Let us not forget that I am (according to him) "quite posh"; that apart from our initial talk in my office I have stopped telling him what I really think and feel; and that his attempts to provoke some kind of spontaneous response from me ("you just need to deal with your demons") are proving totally fruitless. So I am sure that to him Stepford Employee represents less a compliant model of femininity, and more an uptight, snooty, frosty-knickered bint.
Well, tough.
I have thought for some time that if I met New Boss in any other circumstances we would get on famously. But he plays a specific role in my life - a managerial role which dictates a particular type of relationship.
Former Boss was a blunt and direct Yorkshireman too. I thought that meant he would protect my interests, maintain confidentiality, and put a stop to the appalling behaviour of The Others. Hell - I trusted him.
A week before he retired, Former Boss approached me in the main office and said "are you coming to my leaving party?" I replied non-committally; to which he responded "I can completely understand if you don't want to". In front of other people, which was quite something.
In the end I went to his party (figuring a decade under his command ought to be acknowledged), only to have him seek me out and say "I'm sorry for everything that has happened to you", and telling me that he had never intended to deliberately cause me harm.
"Too little, too late" seems to have become this year's motto !!!
But I could have done without all the apologies.
I'd have preferred things not to have happened in the first place.
New Boss knows none of this. And never will.
Insanity = doing the same thing and expecting a different result. So sadly I will never connect with New Boss in the way I connect with all his other countrymen and women.
Because once bitten, twice shy.
Incarceration
Not long ago I was in prison.
Not, I am relieved to report, because I had been sentenced to spend time in there, but because I had gone in as a volunteer. This entailed entering a wing in the company of a burly, key-rattling warder, and then sitting for ninety minutes in a very small cell with approximately 15 male prisoners and one other male volunteer.
I don't do prison volunteering very often because it is difficult service for which I can feel very ill-equipped. But I have never once felt frightened, not even the time when two prisoners almost began fighting and I was the furthest person from the door.
This is because the men inside the cells have always treated me with the most incredibly touching courtesy. Tattooed giants usher me towards the only chair with arm rests, saying "sit here Miss". Young lads who cannot look me in the eye still manage to shake my hand afterwards and say "thanks for coming". And when these men accidentally let out a swear word while speaking, an apology is swift to follow.
I am bewildered as to how things became so horrendously different at work. I don't know what I did to upset some of my colleagues so much. I don't understand why this group selected me as their "mobbing" target, or how I could have avoided this. And I still try to make sense of it all, which is pointless and painful; and gets me precisely nowhere.
But it does seem so very strange that I can feel (relatively) comfortable and at peace in almost every environment I inhabit except for my own workplace.
I felt freer in that prison than I did last Wednesday sitting in the same room as The Jackals.
And I felt a hell of a lot safer.
Not, I am relieved to report, because I had been sentenced to spend time in there, but because I had gone in as a volunteer. This entailed entering a wing in the company of a burly, key-rattling warder, and then sitting for ninety minutes in a very small cell with approximately 15 male prisoners and one other male volunteer.
I don't do prison volunteering very often because it is difficult service for which I can feel very ill-equipped. But I have never once felt frightened, not even the time when two prisoners almost began fighting and I was the furthest person from the door.
This is because the men inside the cells have always treated me with the most incredibly touching courtesy. Tattooed giants usher me towards the only chair with arm rests, saying "sit here Miss". Young lads who cannot look me in the eye still manage to shake my hand afterwards and say "thanks for coming". And when these men accidentally let out a swear word while speaking, an apology is swift to follow.
I am bewildered as to how things became so horrendously different at work. I don't know what I did to upset some of my colleagues so much. I don't understand why this group selected me as their "mobbing" target, or how I could have avoided this. And I still try to make sense of it all, which is pointless and painful; and gets me precisely nowhere.
But it does seem so very strange that I can feel (relatively) comfortable and at peace in almost every environment I inhabit except for my own workplace.
I felt freer in that prison than I did last Wednesday sitting in the same room as The Jackals.
And I felt a hell of a lot safer.
Saturday, 2 June 2012
Stepford Employee Goes to Scarborough
I'm looking down on the North Sands watching a hardy group of surfers, while seagulls wheel and screech overhead.
And I am starting to feel much better.
It's been a strange couple of days, during which I have been feeling peculiarly disassociated. I'm fine when I am at rehearsals, I'm fine when I'm with my friends, I'm very VERY fine when I'm at home with my husband. But I haven't been feeling fine at work.
Personnel have been emailing me, continually shifting the dates of my mediation session with Line Manager; and their latest missive states that nothing can be set up until July. I don't know what mediation means to everyone else, but to me this process only has value if I freely express how I feel. And as this will inevitably leave me feeling vulnerable and exposed; the longer the delay, the more I can feel anxiety building.
So on Friday a little switch trips in my head, and I think "bugger this for a game of soldiers". I politely and apologetically email Personnel and pull out of the whole thing. This inevitably triggers a flurried email from Personnel insisting that I ring her, but I don't respond.
Not responding has become my norm. I go into work, do my tasks, and am as "helpful" as possible, but most of the time I am not fully present. I am still feeling my way into Stepford Employee mode, and realise that I need to start doing more of the smiling and nodding thing - but I find this very difficult when I feel under threat. So it is just as well that I am now on holiday.
I haven't been to Scarborough for years. En route, we keep seeing signs to a Certain Northern City from which New Boss hails; and I reflect on how compartmentalised my life has now become (for I have not mentioned to him, nor anyone else, where I am disappearing off to...). It's colder in Scarborough than I thought it would be. My mother-in-law describes the stiff breeze as "fresh", whereas I'd call it nippy. But our hotel is spotless and has sea views. The batter is crisp, the peas mushy and the chips salty. And the two young women I currently have the privilege of supporting both ring me towards the end of the day and tell me they are doing just fine without me. Which is fabulous.
There aren't any elaborate plans for our time here, other than mooching about and drinking lots of cups of tea. And that's good - because I need some time and space to recover from my recent wobble, and to think further about my newly adopted Stepford persona.
There would seem to be Considerable Room For Improvement.
As my school reports used to say: "Could do better".
And I am starting to feel much better.
It's been a strange couple of days, during which I have been feeling peculiarly disassociated. I'm fine when I am at rehearsals, I'm fine when I'm with my friends, I'm very VERY fine when I'm at home with my husband. But I haven't been feeling fine at work.
Personnel have been emailing me, continually shifting the dates of my mediation session with Line Manager; and their latest missive states that nothing can be set up until July. I don't know what mediation means to everyone else, but to me this process only has value if I freely express how I feel. And as this will inevitably leave me feeling vulnerable and exposed; the longer the delay, the more I can feel anxiety building.
So on Friday a little switch trips in my head, and I think "bugger this for a game of soldiers". I politely and apologetically email Personnel and pull out of the whole thing. This inevitably triggers a flurried email from Personnel insisting that I ring her, but I don't respond.
Not responding has become my norm. I go into work, do my tasks, and am as "helpful" as possible, but most of the time I am not fully present. I am still feeling my way into Stepford Employee mode, and realise that I need to start doing more of the smiling and nodding thing - but I find this very difficult when I feel under threat. So it is just as well that I am now on holiday.
I haven't been to Scarborough for years. En route, we keep seeing signs to a Certain Northern City from which New Boss hails; and I reflect on how compartmentalised my life has now become (for I have not mentioned to him, nor anyone else, where I am disappearing off to...). It's colder in Scarborough than I thought it would be. My mother-in-law describes the stiff breeze as "fresh", whereas I'd call it nippy. But our hotel is spotless and has sea views. The batter is crisp, the peas mushy and the chips salty. And the two young women I currently have the privilege of supporting both ring me towards the end of the day and tell me they are doing just fine without me. Which is fabulous.
There aren't any elaborate plans for our time here, other than mooching about and drinking lots of cups of tea. And that's good - because I need some time and space to recover from my recent wobble, and to think further about my newly adopted Stepford persona.
There would seem to be Considerable Room For Improvement.
As my school reports used to say: "Could do better".
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