Archive for the 'work' Category

Old habits die hard

November 7th, 2011

It’s over ten years now since I worked for an employer.

Since then I ran my own little business which was too fucking successful and it meant I was working all the daylight hours, and some of the darker ones too.  I gave up the business as it was too like hard work.

Since then I have been living the life I deserve – no fucking work but still collecting the old pension.  Nice.

There is still one little hangover from the employment days though.  I still get that sinking feeling on a Sunday evening.

Thinking back, I suppose Mondays have been a drag since I started school.  So from the age of five, or whatever age it was, I have been dreading Sunday evenings because the next thing to come down the track is Monday Morning.

In school, Sunday evening meant a frantic dash to two days worth of homework and dreaming up excuses why it wasn’t finished.  Then for many years I had to submit timesheets and travel claims which meant a Sunday evening frantically trying to invent mileages and filing in forms.

Even now, I still get that sinking feeling on a Sunday evening where I do a soul search to try to remember forgotten homework or wondering whether I will get away with another week’s grossly exaggerated mileage.

Old habits die hard.

Of course these days I get the lovely glow when I remember that Monday morning now means as long a lie in as I want.  I just wish I could get the glow without the panic.

I shall console myself later by listening to the traffic reports.

Nowadays I just love hearing about traffic chaos as I sit in my cosy chair.

Heh!

Freedom

August 24th, 2011

I have just realised that today is a bit of an anniversary.

Ten years ago – the 24th of August, 2001 – was a Significant Day in my life.

It was on that day that I was sacked left RTE for the very last time.  I have been back in there once since then and that was just to sign something in the Credit Union.  I think that alone indicates how much I miss the place?

It was the last day where I had to spend my time doing what someone else wanted me to do.

It was the last day where I ever had to grovel for a bit of time off that I was fully entitled to.

It was the last day where I ever had to feign a modicum of respect for complete wankers who were under the delusion that they could manage or supervise.

It was the very last day ever where my time was not my own to do whatever the fuck I wanted.

It was like the end of a thirty year sentence in gaol.

It wasn’t however the last time I ever had to sit in a stationary car staring at the car in front on that fucking Stillorgan Road. That particular pleasure happened the day before, as on my last day a friend drove me in.  He reckoned that after the “do” in the Social Club that evening that I wouldn’t be fit to drive home.

It transpired that he was right.

The hospital wouldn’t release me until the following day.

Drinkie poos

December 20th, 2010

Back in the Bad Old Days, this was a week I dreaded.

It was the week of the office drinks.

I enjoy a sup as well as the next man, and generally I am not that fussy about where I sup my sup.  I can drink at the bar or in a lounge.  I can enjoy a wee dram by the fire at home.  I can neck a can in the garden or on the beach.  As Herself would say – I would drink drink off a sore leg.  In fact I would go so far as to say I will drink anywhere, with one major exception.

There is one place where the finest whiskey will taste like drain cleaner, or a can of stout will go down like a lead baloon, and that is in an office.

The week before Christmas was traditionally the time when the various departments in my place of employment would open the bottom drawers in their filing cabinets and produce the booze.  We were then expected to go around the various departments and “show our faces”.  I fucking hated that lark, but orders were orders and we had to do it.  I usually fucked off to the pub in the sure and certain knowledge that the various offices would be too pissed to notice whether I was there or not.

There is something very very wrong about drinking in an office.  You can’t slop a pint down anywhere in case you would drench some important memo.  You can’t sit anywhere as there are only enough chairs for the staff of that office and naturally they are always taken.  Worst of all though is the conversation.  The only topic is work, naturally enough.  You are surrounded by computers, phones and filing cabinets so it is impossible to get away from the subject.

This is one week when I am particularly glad I don’t work any more.

Looking for Morpheus

March 9th, 2010

I didn’t get much sleep on Sunday night.

I don’t know what the cause was.  It was just one of those things.  For hours, I lay in bed and stared at the darkness, but the brain just refused to sleep.

Eventually, I did nod off, and was woken by the dog a couple of hours later.  Once again, I was wide awake, so I decided to cut my losses and get up.

Yesterday was a shit day.  I like my sleep, and when I don’t get it, I’m like Mary Harney without the HRT.  All day, I wandered around in a bit of a haze, kicking the guinea pigs [they make quite good footballs, incidentally] and generally breaking things.

My one consolation was that I knew I would have a grand sleep last night, because I was knackered.  I didn’t get to bed too early because a certain dimwit had fucked up his site, and he came clamouring to me, late in the evening to fix it.  I told him to fuck off, but he said he’d pay me in pints at the Blog Awards.  That was enough for me, so I set about fixing it.

I quit after a couple of hours, and went to bed.

Do you think I could sleep?  Like fuck, I could.

I lay there for five hours or so staring at my old friend the darkness.  I tossed and turned but Morpheus had fucked off on his holidays.  No sleep.  Not a single fucking wink.

I got up as dawn broke, as I was sick of the tossing and turning.  I went back to Dimwit’s site and eventually fixed his problem.  Three hours in total, it took me.

I did some sums.

I think I am worth around €100 per hour as a consultant.  Three hours?  Three hundred smackers.  Converted to pints, that comes out at somewhere around eighty pints that Dimwit owes me.

Now, I should sleep after that…………

It is over

February 19th, 2010

Today is a Big Day.

In 1971, I first drove through the gates of Montrose on my Yamaha 80 to start work in RTE.

It was supposed to be a temporary position for a period of six months.  That six months never ended until I left in 2001.  Now, even though I left in 2001, I still actually stayed on the payroll, so technically I have been working there for the last nearly forty years.

Today, I retire.

I am officially a pensioner.

Of course, RTE are throwing a big party for me tonight.  All my old colleagues will be there, and the Director General will make a speech and a presentation.  This will be followed by an open bar and I will finally be poured into a taxi [at RTE’s expense] and brought home.

Like fuck!

I received a letter last week, informing me I was retiring and thanking me for all my years work.  It said that they would be in touch before The Big Day.

That is all I have heard.  They never got in touch.  Fucking bastards.  No party.  No presentation.  No speeches [be grateful for small mercies].  Not even a fucking handshake.  All those years, nay decades of blood sweat and tears and all I get is a fucking letter.  How quickly they forget.  Miserable, tight-fisted, amnesiac cunts.

I suppose I did get something out of all those years in RTE though.

At least I got to ‘know’ Sharon.

Heh!

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