Turning the tables

Telling your boss that you think the job is killing you by inches is something I can heartily recommend to anyone who is having a bad time at work. There's nothing like a bit of health-related guilt to soften the system.

The fact that I meant every word, and that I really must get out of this place doesn't lessen my satisfaction at the fact that there seems to have been an immediate attitude change on her behalf. I doubt, though, that there will be any immediate developments since I have to get in touch with the grandly named Human Resources and find out what options are open to me.

They used to be Establishments and then became Personnel before transmogrifying into HR. Each change of name has involved a change of address and shedding of function to the line, so that today HR is generally regarded as the place to gain a posting for the old, weary and terminally potty civil servant*. No one quite knows who or where they are, or indeed what they actually do. A friend and colleague of mine who had a stress-related breakdown a few months ago swears by them, though. She had a fair amount of time away from the office on her doctor's orders and found that the phrase, "work-related illness" is to them what green kryptonite is to Superman.

It is clear, though, that they do not move rapidly. This suits me since I need to give some thought as to the next phase in my attempts to get out of London but stay gainfully employed.

The old health hasn't given out yet, but there are increasing signs that it's only a matter of time as things stand. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the job is still crap, boring and deathly, but the Lea morale is fortified and the humour lightened.

Now for more coffee to keep the rampant hypertension at optimal sympathy inducing levels.




* Anyone who suggests that this, then, is where I belong will get a most discomfiting blip around the melon. No names, no pack drill, but you know who you are.

Turning the tables

Telling your boss that you think the job is killing you by inches is something I can heartily recommend to anyone who is having a bad time at work. There's nothing like a bit of health-related guilt to soften the system.

The fact that I meant every word, and that I really must get out of this place doesn't lessen my satisfaction at the fact that there seems to have been an immediate attitude change on her behalf. I doubt, though, that there will be any immediate developments since I have to get in touch with the grandly named Human Resources and find out what options are open to me.

They used to be Establishments and then became Personnel before transmogrifying into HR. Each change of name has involved a change of address and shedding of function to the line, so that today HR is generally regarded as the place to gain a posting for the old, weary and terminally potty civil servant*. No one quite knows who or where they are, or indeed what they actually do. A friend and colleague of mine who had a stress-related breakdown a few months ago swears by them, though. She had a fair amount of time away from the office on her doctor's orders and found that the phrase, "work-related illness" is to them what green kryptonite is to Superman.

It is clear, though, that they do not move rapidly. This suits me since I need to give some thought as to the next phase in my attempts to get out of London but stay gainfully employed.

The old health hasn't given out yet, but there are increasing signs that it's only a matter of time as things stand. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the job is still crap, boring and deathly, but the Lea morale is fortified and the humour lightened.

Now for more coffee to keep the rampant hypertension at optimal sympathy inducing levels.




* Anyone who suggests that this, then, is where I belong will get a most discomfiting blip around the melon. No names, no pack drill, but you know who you are.