Ballast for the Fatberg

Ive just had a week off, sick, haven’t had this time off sick for some time, my doctor could not give me anything for the illness, save for the wise words of “rest up”, he was kind enough to give me a sick note to legitimise the malady. Which is what gets my goat, in the world of corporate bullshit, one has to act contrary to the rule of law that is “Guilty until proven Innocent”.

I’m not swinging the lead, never have really, I’m quick and efficient at my job, ignore the bullshit, the unimportant stuff and get on to the next one, then I pack up and go home. That’s the size of it, gone are the days off working for this company when one would feel pride and usefulness for a job well done. I’ll still do a good job, but I don’t care, at all, about what you, the headless directionless firefighting management wish to do with my work. You can shove it up your arses for all I care and push it home with the director’s toothbrush. You’ve lost the dressing room, have failed to read the room and as a consequence as soon as the klaxon rings, we will leave the room, I’ll tidy up tomorrow.

So how do I feel about my week off sick? Do I feel better? I’m thinking today I’m firing at about 6.5/10, the best its been this week  and have managed, not really wanting to, but deeming it unfortunately necessary, to cough up a substantial amount of old man’s lung juice which is promptly jettisoned down which ever drain there is to hand to amalgamate with the silently creeping fat bergs which populate our sewars, too large to be squeezed out of the overflows into our once thriving rivers as a grossly mistaken mishapen form of humankind ambergris. I spooke to my Mum this week, who was, as ever, gushingly concerned as to my wellness and was suggesting that maybe I should take another week off, just like that, management won’t like that. But having plans to watch a bunch of David Lynch films, to write a shed load, and to listen to bucket loads of music, I haven’t. Ive sat down, I’ve had a hair cut, I’ve driven to the big shops twice, I’ve lit fires, I’ve cooked, I’ve done a bit of downstairs cleaning (I’m not good cleaning at heights) I’ve watched the first 2 Mad Max films with young T, who is off with the snow, and all of this I’ve completed certainly very confidently in my pyjamas. I feel sorry for my work mates who seem to have a shit load of work without a plan from managers as to how to complete such work, other than, getting it done, the same as it ever was, but if the new system they’ve bought in isn’t working then that’s hardly our fault, and if anything this week off sick has persuaded me more so to just learn to switch off when the clock ticks past going home time and the klaxon sounds. We shouldn’t be so timorous regarding our work life balance and the position people with smaller minds than myself, their eyes on the prize of money and recognition for money saved. We can’t do our job effectively now, and that is because some greedy cunt with no knowledge of how we do what we do or indeed what we do and why we do it, implemented a system which panders to those 3 things rather than the staff on the ground. 

Christ, I’m sure if the company offered redundancies to the older cantankerous of us then I’m sure there would be a muted murmur of  assent amongst the directorship until they realise how many years experience they have just spat down the drain along with the mucous I’m coughing up presently, ballast for the fat-bergs

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