Tuesday 31 July 2012

Hoorah hoorah

I missed community choir last week because the carpet laying aftermath extended until midnight. So tonight it is with a renewed sense of enthusiasm that I head over to the hall where we all meet. I am early, so I enter to find the Choir Mistress there on her own, pinning up the words to a new song.

Choir Mistress works for the same organisation I do, but instead of appearing to find this a burden, she is one of the most radiant and cheerful people I think I have ever met! We are too discreet to talk about the Council in front of other choir members, but this unexpected rendezvous presents an opportunity to have a jolly good chat before anyone else arrives.

In the middle of the conversation, I happen to mention that I never discuss my membership of the choir with anyone I work with. Choir Mistress looks a little surprised and asks why. I say it is because I don't feel safe around certain colleagues.

I don't feel safe.

- I said this to Line Manager about a year ago, and he affected complete incomprehension.
- I said this to Former Boss and he responded by saying "I don't think Line Manager would actually hit you".
- I said this to New Boss, and he said "that's just silly".

But I don't need to explain myself any further to Choir Mistress - because she instantly understands I don't feel psychologically safe.

Unlike hers, my department is a place where lies are told, gossip is spread, people are undermined and humiliated, managers bully, and spite and rancour are so rife that it is a wonder the Decent People find enough pockets of clean air in which to survive.

The community choir represents the complete opposite.
A group of people who work together to create something positive and harmonious.

It is one of the many sanctuaries I have been led towards over the past six months.
So a big hoorah for Choir Mistress, who gives up her time voluntarily to lead this merry band !

Hoorah for her, and everyone like her.

Exploiting Politeness

 Oh - an email from Personnel has just popped up in my inbox!

Personnel has now returned from holiday, and is kindly taking the time to communicate to me her hope that the mediation was "helpful".

Helpful ?
Mmmmmm.

I wonder how much it has cost the organisation to finally capitulate and stump up for professional mediation, albeit two years after I first asked for it. From my own researches, I suspect the bill will have come to around £1,500 (obviously my employers never use any contractor, unless they are proven to be the very cheapest available...)

I wonder, too, what Personnel actually believes will have emerged positively from this reluctant expenditure.

New Boss told me some months ago that he was confident I would soon get back onto friendly terms with Line Manager and Spiteful Manager. Stepford Employee politely murmured something about thinking this "very unlikely", while internally Real Woman ran amok screaming "upon what planet do you reside, you bloody halfwit? I am only friendly with people who are nice to me".

But one good thing does seem to have come out of the mediation experience. Line Manager appears to have taken on board my request that he never again attempt to have a conversation with me about anything other than work matters. Because I have now had the opportunity to tell him that he is not my friend and never will be.

So he knows that I don't want to chat to him about the weather, or what was on telly last night, or the Olympics. That I don't want to walk to meetings in his company, or chit chat over the coffee machine. I don't want to reminisce with him about former colleagues, or hear about his holiday. And I most certainly don't want to tell him about mine.

Being able to articulate my desire that we establish crystal clear boundaries around the managerial relationship means that I no longer tense up whenever he comes near me; because the bookends of our work discussions are now simply "good morning" and "thank you".

A friend recently recommended a book called "The Gift of Fear" by Gavin de Becker. In it, he talks about the way in which male stalkers manipulate women by trading on their innate tendency to politeness. Although my own circumstances are different, I have long felt that the managerial bullies I work with constantly exploit their confidence in my courteousness and self-restraint. Hence Line Manager's attempts to engage me in social conversation in front of other people have, I believe, been a cynical exercise to demonstrate that he is a palsy-walsy and affable chap, while I am just an uptight and unfriendly b*tch.

I have found it extremely stressful to maintain a neutral and professional demeanour every time he has done this. Because the hypocrisy of it all - and my inability to respond as I would wish to - has made me feel quite ill.

But now Line Manager is under no illusion about what I think and feel.

I ponder whether to email Personnel back and let her know that in one respect mediation has been very helpful indeed. It has significantly increased the distance between myself and Line Manager.

And for that, I am truly thankful.

Managing Not to Feel Guilty

Yesterday turned into a very strange day.

I arrived at the Town Hall late, after dealing with some personal administration tasks. Personal admin is something I neglected for the last 3 years - suddenly being forced to address matters when they reached crisis point, and (embarrassingly) I was starting to receive red bills and unexpected letters from solicitors. Not because I didn't have the money, or the willingness to address the issues; but because I had subjected them to complete neglect.

Why? Because I was spending 50 - 60 hours a week AT WORK.

But now - transformation! Personal admin comes first, and strangely as a result of this decision, all my affairs are now in pristine order. But at 11am all is concluded, and so I determine to buckle down and do some work.

I walk into my dear little department and instantly observe that a colleague is looking extremely strained. It bothers me. I don't even switch on my computer. I very quietly ask the colleague if they are OK. Colleague gives unresponsive and depressed answer. I ask colleague if they need to talk. Colleague says yes, and we leave the office to find a quiet corner elsewhere.

A tale unfolds of weekend upset, stress, depression and extremely troubled thoughts. I am relieved that they are being articulated. They are the kind of thoughts no-one should ever keep to themselves. The colleague has already been to see their GP that morning. I encourage them to accept the psychiatric help being offered. And more than anything I want to reassure them that they should not feel shame. The colleague tells me they are feeling better.

I return to the department. Another colleague approaches me looking upset. They would like to talk. I leave the department with them, and we go and sit in the park. They explain the particular work stresses they are currently under, and how unsupported they feel. I listen and make some suggestions - emphasising that I can only speak from my own personal experience. The colleague tells me they are feeling better.

I return to the department. I get as far as booting up my computer. My mobile phone rings. It is a young woman I know from Support Group meetings who has recently asked me to help her. She is struggling. She is crying hysterically and is deeply upset over something which has just happened. I leave the department, and find a quiet space in the midst of the construction works which have taken over our building. I listen and talk for half an hour. Unusually for me, I find I am practising some fairly tough love.

I return to the department. I do half an hour work. My phone pings with several texts from Support Group friends, and then I get a call from the woman I am supposed to be meeting at 5.30pm, asking me to confirm that our arrangement stands. I look at my watch. It is now 4pm, and the rendezvous is half an hour's walk away. I reply to a few work emails in desultory fashion, then switch off my computer and leave the department.

I walk slowly, taking a route through some green space. I arrive at the gates of the men's prison where the woman who rang me earlier is waiting. We go through the security checks and are escorted onto a wing where over 20 prisoners are gathered in a room. I give the main talk. The prisoners share back. It is an incredibly powerful and moving experience.

I leave the prison. I have a great chat with the woman I went in with. I have never met her before, but we have hit it off splendidly. We arrange to meet in a couple of weeks time at a Support Group meeting. She gives me a lift to my regular meeting.

I arrive at the meeting in time to get a seat. Just as well, as this meeting is now so popular that latecomers are forced to stand at the back. All my sponsees are at the meeting, along with many other young women who are really trying to change their lives. There are lots of men there too, but the women are instinctively starting to group together.

I get home. One of my sponsees rings for a talk. She has a lot on her mind. The phone calls ends at 11.15pm. I talk to Husband for half an hour. And then we go to bed, where I reflect upon the past 24 hours. And I reflect upon the fact that although I have done less than an hour of actual work, I have been paid for a full day.

I guess I should feel guilty.
I should - but I don't.

Sunday 29 July 2012

Payback Time

Ex-Army Man has an enormous ego, is about as sensitive as a triceratops, and cannot lower his voice below 73 decibels.

He is also the person who has been placed in charge of our impending office move.

Everyone else realises that this job is a thankless, boring and miserable task; and utters daily prayers of gratitude that New Boss's eye did not alight on them when he was casting around for someone to dump this one onto. Ex-Army Man is, however, labouring under the delusion that being personally hand-picked for this job is incontrovertible evidence of his superiority.

Even the most placid among the Decent People are now on the point of strangling Ex-Army Man, whose booming pronouncements and controlling behaviour are bringing out everyone's inner demon. Given that my own Inner Demon is not as far below the surface as I would like, I am finding visits to the Town Hall extra-challenging right now....

Ex-Army Man has spent the day officiously wandering around waving a large seating plan, and by dint of some nifty footwork and Jason Bourne-style somersaults into stationery cupboards, I have managed to avoid him for almost an entire day. But eventually Ex-Army Man corners me by the printer.

"Young lady, have you got a minute?"
(Yes, he really does talk like that.....)

I make a vague gesture of assent as I can't quite bring myself to speak to the awful man. Ex-Army Man then proceeds to advise me that under the new office arrangement, I will be sharing a desk with none other than Remora. (Ah! Remora. Thereby hangs a tale etc etc)

Remora, as Ex-Army Man well knows, meddled her way into my grievance against Line Manager. And if I loathed her before, my loathing has now increased a trillion-fold.

So why, you may well ask, has Ex-Army Man come up with this extraordinary juxtaposition which - if implemented - will inevitably lead to me throwing myself, my computer or Remora (or quite possibly all three of us....) out of a third floor window???

Why indeed.

I fall back on my Emergency Response.
"Mmmmmmmmm" I say, before turning my attention back to the document I am scanning.

At the end of the mediation session, Line Manager was left in no doubt about the impact of his actions, particularly his alliance with Remora. It is one of the many nasty and totally inappropriate actions he was forced to own up to.

I go and see Line Manager and in words of one syllable explain to him what Ex-Army Man has proposed. Line Manager blanches. I tell Line Manager that as he must surely know, there is no way on God's earth that I will ever share breathing space with Remora. Line Manager tells me he will come up with another solution.

I shan't be bothering New Boss with the reality of how I am feeling.
But if necessary I shall bother Line Manager every minute of every f***ing day.

It's Payback Time.

Stepford Employee Gets Strategic

After the gruelling mediation session, I hide in the loo until Line Manager has gone; and then return to the Town Hall via one of the coffee chains where I have fortified myself with a major caffeine hit. My brain is still desperately endeavouring to process all that has just happened, but as I pass New Boss's door I know better than to reveal the slightest iota of agitation....

"Hi New Boss!" I say sweetly as I pop my head inside the door. "Did you have a nice holiday?"

Stepford Employee would walk on at this point, except that New Boss skews his head round to study me. My dress (short) my hair (fluffy) and my demeanour (lighthearted and positively girlish!) clearly find favour; because at this point he actually stops tapping at his keyboard and settles back in his Big Comfy Chair.

Magnanimously ushering me within, New Boss tells me all about his recent trip to Continental climes, including the fact that he attended a cultural event featuring opera (my predilection for such amusements being the convenient hook upon which he hangs the entire conversation).

"Oh!" I say. "How lovely".

(I am, in truth, quite envious of New Boss's cultural experience; although he confesses that he only stuck it out for the first half. Philistine).

"How are you?" he enquires as an afterthought.

- Do I tell New Boss that it's a wonder I am still on my feet after being "mediated" half to death ?

- Do I say "well, you know that anxiety I was telling you I am suffering from? It's still there" ??

- Do I tell him that it is by the sheerest effort of will that I am even able to set foot in his ghastly department ???

Not on your nelly.

When Husband and I were travelling in the States once , we kept seeing people wearing wristbands with WWJD on them ("What Would Jesus Do?").

The public sector version reads WWSED or "What Would Stepford Employee Do?" !!

The answer isn't hard to find. Stepford Employee recognises that Managers aren't the slightest bit interested in the well being of their staff, and all that Managers really really want is the total absence of problems. So I utter the only answer a good Stepford Employee can make. The strategic answer.

"Fine, thanks!" I say. "I am absolutely fine".

Stretched Too Thin..

I have just arrived at a Support Group meeting when a young woman comes up to me, shaking with emotion and barely able to speak. She has been "back out there". She tells me she is desperate. She asks me to help her by entering into a more structured relationship with her (the type in which our organisation specialises).

At the moment, I already have this relationship with two other women Francis and Leslie. The relationships represent a major commitment and take up my most jealously guarded resource time. I have vowed not to take on anyone else for at least six months.

"Yes," I hear myself say. "I will do my best to help you".

AAAaaaarghhhhhh.

This is the biggest challenge I face - the daily battle with my own selfish wants and desires. The want to go straight home after work, and not sit for 90 minutes in fast food restaurants drinking their awful tea and listening to other people's difficulties. The want to skip a meeting because I am tired. The want to skip out of the door as soon as a meeting ends, and not help to clear up. And the want to avoid answering the phone late at night because that means I can't lie on the sofa reading the copy of "Now" I found on the bus.

I go home, feeling frustrated with myself, and tell Husband. He just smiles.

The next day I text Angie and ask her to meet me later for a chat. That evening we talk for over an hour. I can feel a great sense of compassion growing towards her. I have always found it impossible to encounter another person's humility and courage and not feel incredibly moved.

On Saturday morning, another young woman - Maggie - approaches me at the end of a Support Group meeting and asks if she can talk to me. I take her into the kitchen so we can wash up together, and over the clatter of the cups, she too asks me if I will help her.

I have to say no. I have to explain that I now have three women I am working with, and I really will not be able to give her the support she needs. Maggie is very polite, and humble and understanding.

And I feel absolutely AWFUL that I have said no.
I still do.

Impact Statement

Last night I had the first good sleep I have managed to have for about two weeks.

Admittedly, the new carpet installation caused a modicum of disruption, and left me unable to locate anything or even set up my laptop for a bit of therapeutic blogging. But the main reason for my sleeplessness over the past fortnight has been the knowledge that I was going to have to sit in a room for over two hours in the delightful company of Line Manager.

Now it is over, I don't feel the mediation process has benefited me much at all (despite Personnel being convinced that undergoing this ordeal would miraculously make me "happier"). It has all been conducted sub rosa and in strict confidence -  which means that Line Manager's many damning admissions can all be tidily swept under the carpet, and that he can continue to enjoy the protection and support of the organisation.

So why do I feel strangely and inexplicably relieved ?

The weekend offers me an opportunity to mull this over, and I realise that being given the opportunity to clearly explain to Line Manager the impact of his actions upon me has indefinably raised my sense of self-esteem.

The process certainly didn't have a Hollywood ending. At the end of the session, Line Manager and I did not fall upon each other's necks, sobbing. We did not even shake hands. I told him and the Mediators that I felt there was a cauldron of unresolved issues bubbling away underneath us; and when I said to Line Manager "you still seem to be harbouring a lot of anger" he didn't deny it.

But I was able to stand up for myself, speak my truth, and NOT PEOPLE PLEASE.

Line Manager now knows that he must confine our discussions to work matters.
And that I will only sit in a room with him if the door is left open....

I speak to him two or three times before the working week comes to a close - referring a couple of issues to him, and asking for some minor help with another. Our conversation is polite, quiet and minimal - exactly the kind of interaction I have always wanted.

His retirement is about 18 months away, and for the first time I actually believe we are going to be able to reach this milestone without further conflict.

Whether or not he can alter his behaviour where my poor beleaguered colleagues are concerned, only time will tell...

Thursday 26 July 2012

Speaking Different Languages

"What do you hope to get out of mediation?"

The question is being put to me by a pair of pleasant, friendly women who have been engaged by my employing organisation (yes! the council has actually forked out cash!!) in a vain, last-ditch attempt to mitigate the appalling train smash to which they have so ably contributed.

I admit to Mediators that I have lost sight of my original objectives, and that in many ways I have lost interest. But I have committed to this process, and so after some deliberation the best I can come up with is that I would like to be managed appropriately.

Line Manager is the other participant in this process. Sitting in a room at close quarters with him is very difficult, but I remain as calm and quiet as I am able. Given that we are trying to recover from a series of highly unpleasant and distressing conflicts, I anticipate that Line Manager will adopt a similar tone. So it is quite shocking (but in retrospect, not in the least surprising) to realise that despite the circumstances Line Manager is unable to stop himself from:

a) being sarcastic
b) speaking aggressively
c) jabbing his finger towards me
d) grimacing
e) revealing shedloads of not particularly well repressed anger

I say "unable to stop himself" because it dawns on me very early on in the process that the rest of us are speaking a language which Line Manager is simply unable to understand. Even the Mediators appear shocked at the lack of self-control which Line Manager is demonstrating. And the sheer pointless futility of it all suddenly makes me want to weep.

There are some helpful outcomes - albeit unexpected, unrecorded and unofficial.

Line Manager admits that shouting at me was wrong. He admits that dragging members of my team into the scenario was inappropriate. He admits that he deliberately involved Remora because he knew it would cause me maximum upset. He admits that his actions resulted in co-workers taking sides, and me becoming the target for their petty unpleasantness and bullying. And he acknowledges how badly I have been affected by everything that has happened - far more so than he himself has been.

I agree to a way forward which is based on strictly professional and task-oriented discussions. And then I politely explain to Line Manager that he is not my friend and never will be; so could he please stop trying to have friendly conversations with me because it makes me feel intense discomfort.

When the meeting ends, and Line Manager asks if I am walking back to the Town Hall, I say no, I am going for a coffee first. And just in case he intends to do his "hovering" thing, I walk straight into the Ladies and wait inside for ten minutes until I can be absolutely sure he has gone away.

Monday 23 July 2012

Good Times Coming

I would seize on any excuse to pay a visit to the amateur theatre company I have just joined, but a rather nice one presents itself. The youth group is performing a series of sketches and playlets, and I always love watching young people acting.

My own love of theatre was nurtured through a children's drama group. And when I was in the 6th Form at school, I ran a drama club for the juniors, and then later directed two plays for the younger pupils. Their enthusiasm, humour and insight were a constant inspiration, and I am sorry that in later life I lost touch with it all.

My assumption that the show starts at 8pm proves unfounded, leaving me ten minutes to grab a sandwich before I take my seat. Rather pleasingly, the seats in front of me are occupied by one of the actors from the production I have just been involved with, as well as his extremely glamorous wife and one of their friends. We start chatting and I learn that their child will be appearing towards the end of the first half. And then he tells me that he has been offered a nice part in the Shakespeare play in which I have also just been cast.

I feel slightly uncomfortable admitting to him that the part I have been offered is one I suspect several of the male auditionees had their eye upon (not Faithful Old Retainer, but another role). But my co-actor's response is so generous-spirited and heartfelt, I feel rather humbled by it.

A couple of days later, an email from the director pops up. And when I read that another two actors from our first play have been cast as well, I feel quite excited !

Because this time round, it is all about the people. Not about parts, not about prestige, not about press notices. It is simply about meeting lots of lovely people, working together harmoniously, and having a really good time.

And I am confident that a really good time is exactly what lies ahead.

Sunday 22 July 2012

The Storm Before the Calm...

Husband and I have a number of things in common.

- Our mothers are Glaswegians

- We like going to Support Group meetings

- Travel is our big passion

 - We prefer life to be calm.

However, as a result of us placing travel before almost everything else we spend our money on, we have ended up with a carpet which has become embarrassingly threadbare. Only now - when it has got to the point we don't want our friends to see it - have we taken the plunge and ordered a new one. And if matters were only that simple, we would both be content. But they aren't.

Because all the furniture has to be moved. And all the things on the floor. And the piles of books. And the clothes I have left hanging on the side of the wardrobe. And moving things exposing other things - like a wall which needs painting, and a box of Christmas wrapping paper, and the "spare" vacuum cleaner. And so we have embarked on A Massive Clear Out.

This is where Husband and I part company.

Husband can airily seize a bin bag and throw half his possessions into it without turning a hair; whereas I have a neurotic inability to discard anything, particularly if it cost over a tenner.

Husband is well aware of this mental block, once asking me how many dressing gowns I owned; and when I confessed to having 4, said "I want you to repeat after me. 'My name is Katharine and I am a hoarder'...."

He offers to "help" me throw things away, which leads to me saying "no, no, go away, I can do it if you just leave me alone to mentally prepare myself..."

It takes me a day and a half to achieve this, but when I finally click into "Discard" mode, I am considerably better at it than I have anticipated. I do exactly what they suggest in women's magazines, dividing clothes into "chuck", "charity shop", and "not too sure about" piles. Better still, I immediately start taking them out of the flat, rather than leaving them there overnight where I might start ferreting through them again.

We shred kilos of paper, old bills, emails pertaining to work, projects which have been left half-completed. And I neatly pack the things I want to keep into boxes. Goddammit, I even stick neatly written labels onto the front of them !! And Husband manages to paint the living room and gloss the radiator. Everything is in total chaos, and the air is blue with bad language as we both bark our shins hourly on bits of furniture which have been shifted to unfamiliar locations. We are just hanging onto the thought that in a week's time, when the new carpet is down, things will be calm again.

It's a small flat and we have hardly any storage space. I have never really accepted this reality; instead collecting possessions as if I reside in a large country pile with a cellar and attics. But as the floor clears, and I can open cupboards without things falling out, and can wear things from my wardrobe without having to re-iron them; I start to see the benefits of comparative minimalism.

 Husband's mood has lightened with every refuse and recycling sack which has left our abode. "I feel so much better," he says. "Everything looks so much better".

I am forced to agree with him, even as I salvage my old mobile phone and secretly stash it in my bedside drawer. (After all, one never knows - I might lose my current one...)

How to Be Normal

I walk into the Saturday morning Support Group meeting, and plant myself on one of the few remaining unoccupied chairs. There's a woman in front of me, whom I last met in this room six weeks ago. I haven't seen her since, so I assume she may have been "back out there."

"Hi Holly!" I say warmly. "How's it going?"
Holly promptly bursts into floods of tears.
Which tells me all I need to know.

It's a great meeting this morning, and as usual a theme emerges without anyone consciously imposing it. The message which for 60 minutes ties us together like a golden thread, is the sheer impossibility of trying to deal with our problem on our own. Person after person talks about their moment of total surrender, and how they look back on that moment of abject despair and humility as one of the greatest gifts of their lives.

I have spent the hour before the meeting with one of my sponsees, but I spend the half hour afterwards with Holly.

"I feel so ANGRY", she sobs. "Why can't I be like other people? I just want to be normal."

I can remember feeling like this myself, particularly on a Friday night when everyone in the office where I then worked used to head off together for the evening, and I knew it was better that I didn't go with them. But eventually I stopped giving it a thought. Because sitting in a Support Group meeting became so much more interesting and profitable.

I want to tell Holly that her only chance of achieving "normality" is to simply give in. But she is still struggling with acceptance, so all she needs to know at the moment is that it would be good if she can keep coming back. I suggest that she might try and connect more, not just flit in and out of the occasional meeting. I give her my number and tell her she can call or text me anytime. She gives me her number in return.

Much of her talk has been of work success and her high profile life; but as we are about to part, she drops her guard.

"Things are getting really bad," she says. "Things are getting desperate".
"Get to plenty of meetings" I suggest. "That's what helped me".

Sunday night finds me in another Support Group meeting, in the grounds of the local mental hospital. It is a busy meeting, with a number of friends there I haven't seen for a while. I am caught up with chatting and don't get a chance to register everyone who comes through the door.

So it is only half way through the meeting that I realise Holly is quietly sitting behind me. After the meeting, I introduce her to some other women and leave them talking while I help tidy up.

Then I hear a lovely sound.
I hear Holly laughing.

How to Treat Your Enemies

After years of never taking any kind of lunch break, and doing things like rifling through my drawer in a desperate hunt for stale crackers because I had convinced myself I didn't have time to leave my desk; I have now become a highly practised Lady Who Lunches !

Towards the end of the week, I beetle off for my third lunch date of the week - this time with Life Coach Colleague, who has just been away to exotic climes and whose holiday photos I have asked to look at.

Life Coach Colleague? He inspires a kind of irrational hatred in certain people. Oh! Funnily enough he is also attractive, articulate, exceptionally well groomed and dressed, and highly proficient at his job.

Go figure.

Life Coach Colleague has given me much support over the past few months, for which I am very grateful. But what no-one knows - and never will - is that about a year ago I was the person he rang when the malicious behaviour of colleagues all got too much for him. (It's quite grim having to listen to a grown man struggling not to cry).

So we have a particular shared bond; but despite the vulnerability he revealed to me; he is far better at dealing with the Jackals than I am.

It is Life Coach Colleague who has trained me to adopt the DILLIC = "Do I Look Like I Care?" facial expression when the pointed bitchy comments start flying (DILLIC involves staring into the middle distance and smiling...)

It is Life Coach Colleague who openly proclaims his successes and triumphs because (as he puts it) "why should I modify my behaviour to satisfy these c***s?"

And it is Life Coach Colleague who absolutely refuses to make our relationship one of subterfuge, saying things like "oooh, I can't wait for our lunch this Friday" just when Politician's Daughter is walking past us.

We enjoy a particularly good meal today, while he tells me all about his rather adventurous two week sojourn in the Middle East. So it is only over the coffees that we finally get round to conversing about Life on Planet Zog aka our dear little department.

Life Coach Colleague tells me of a baffling conversation he had recently with Remora.

"She asked me if I was coming along to a pub lunch to commemorate Politician's Daughter's imminent disappearance on maternity leave. I said no, I wasn't coming because I had absolutely nothing in common with Politician's Daughter, and that none of the people who were going were friends of mine. And then..." (Life Coach Colleague takes a swig of strong Americano to fortify himself for the startling climax) "and then Remora said 'oh they aren't friends of mine, I have nothing in common with them either' !!".

I gaze back at Life Coach Colleague with a blank expression, wondering why this appears to have shocked him so much. He gazes back in bafflement.

"I mean, why would she hang about with these people all the time if she doesn't have anything in common with them???"

I forebear to supply him with the reason my pal Jo Inner Circle recently came up with (ie "because she's f***ing nuts?"). Instead I patiently try to explain, as calmly and rationally as I can, that Remora is a sociopath who doesn't like anyone, and indeed holds the entire human race in complete contempt.

Life Coach Colleague twitches like a computer on the verge of imminent breakdown. Indeed, I almost expect him to suddenly start mechanically repeating "cannot compute, cannot compute" before slumping to the carpet and requiring urgent rebooting.

"But she goes out with these people all the time!" he proffers, in an attempt to find some logic in the situation. "They all think she is their friend!?!"

"Mmmm," I respond, suggesting that if Life Coach Colleague studies the scenarios being played out before him a leeeetle more closely, he will realise that he is watching the most breathtakingly proficient displays of psychological manipulation I have ever seen (think Dale Carnegie crossed with Stalin and you will get the general idea....). Remora's chief tool is flattery which she lays on thickly with a trowel - and regrettably, most people are absolute suckers for flattery.

I also advise Life Coach Colleague that Remora's favourite motto is "Keep your Friends Close, and Your Enemies Even Closer" (oddly, this is diametrically opposed to my own favourite motto, which is "Avoid Your Enemies Like the F***ing Plague"...)

We swallow the last remnants of our coffee before heading back to the Town Hall, both slightly subdued at this latest example of Remora's weirdness and duplicity.

But there is something I haven't told Life Coach Colleague.
I haven't told him all the things Remora used to say to me and all our colleagues about him.
They cannot, however, be half as bad as the things she now says to co-workers about me.

Mice Playing

I have paid more visits to the Town Hall this week, than I have in the previous month! This is partly due to the fact that I have to keep going over there to deal with issues pertaining to a particular project; but mainly because Certain People are gloriously absent...

Line Manager is still convalescing from his op; while Spiteful Manager and New Boss are both on holiday. This leaves the rest of us under the command of Deputy Boss - an extremely nice person who is adored by the discerning members of the department, and yet whose gentle manner means he is paid little heed by The Others. (When I once mentioned Deputy Boss in conversation with New Boss, he was instantly dismissive, telling me Deputy Boss was "very introverted". Implying that introversion was a Bad Thing, and it was so much better to be clownish, loud and brash. Oh - just like New Boss!)

But this week the cats are away, so the mice can play...

Not in a destructive, malicious way - because the mice are represented by the Decent People. So the playing simply involves people reconnecting with each other, smiling, chatting, quietly enjoying each others' company, and being very supportive when anyone needs help.

The atmosphere has been transformed - and so, after months of chronic anxiety triggered by the workplace, necessitating me locking myself in the downstairs loo for ten minutes while I muster up the courage to enter the fray; suddenly I am able to walk through the door without any difficulty whatsoever ! And when I do so, my co-workers are greeting me with friendliness and warmth.

Life Coach Colleague immediately jumps up and gives me a hug. Maternal Colleague offers to let me use her computer to access a particular programme. Continental Colleague gives me a wink and Stylish Female Colleague asks my advice about something. I sit down next to Private Colleague and we exchange pleasantries, while our eyes communicate a myriad of shared understandings (our relationship is on a new footing, following our clandestine lunch earlier in the week....)

The mood is light-hearted but productive, so we all sit there working but in a relaxed and cheerful manner. It is fab! It is like a healthy workplace should feel !!

But of course, it is not complete nirvana.
Because one element of discord remains.

Remora is mysteriously absent, but sadly Ex-Army Man is still in situ; unable to make a phone call or address anyone else in the office without raising his voice until the very window panes rattle and his colleagues are forced to desperately stuff tissue in their ears.

Suddenly an email from Deputy Boss - who has an office at one slight remove - pings up. Colleagues from the outer office (we are only temporarily housed on the second floor) have complained about the noise we are making. Ex-Army Man leaps to his feet, and officiously announces that he will go and find out what is going on.

He returns, minutes later, strangely chastened. This is unusual for Ex-Army Man, someone who exemplifies Schadenfreude. The entire purpose of his route march into the outer office has been to Get Names (presumably so that he can relay the information to New Boss on his return from hols). Yet here he sits, strangely silent. What can have been said?

"Did you find out?" I ask. Ex-Army Man affects not to know what I am asking. "Did you find out who the complaint was about?" I clarify. "Because obviously that's what you were trying to discover".

Ex-Army Man shuffles some papers on his desk, harrumphing that the whole thing is a storm in a teacup. "It wasn't about you, was it?" I ask sweetly. "Because you are always VERY loud. They didn't complain about you, did they?"

"Storm in a teacup" repeats Ex-Army Man.
Loudly.

Thursday 19 July 2012

Small is beautiful

Because of the play, I haven't been along to a community choir session for about a month. So it feels great to walk across the common on a rainy evening and then be greeted with warmth and humour by a group of cheery ladies (and a very few men....)

The woman who runs this choir is employed by the same organisation as myself. She appears happy, contented and full of joie-de-vivre ! It is most strange. Clearly her department is a reasonably pleasant one, whereas walking into mine necessitates careful girding in body armour, and then spending the day dodging snipers....

We sing "California Dreaming" and "Moon River". We learn all the harmonies. We sound lovely. Why can't we sing like this when we have one of our rare public "outings" ?? It's a mystery !!!

Two hours pass in a blur of laughter, chat, singing and lovingly firm direction from Choir Mistress - someone who exemplifies good leadership and management. She's extremely funny, but always in complete charge; and we all respect and admire her.

Afterwards, Choir Mistress and I sit and have a chat for five minutes. We talk about our former lives engaged in projects which placed us on a bigger stage, and I end up telling her about my recent involvement with the amateur theatre group and how much I am loving it.

We talk about how much joy and satisfaction we have found in connecting up with the concepts "community" "local" and above all "small". It's a great conversation, and I leave feeling inspired all over again.

Later that night, she emails us all photos of the tambourine dance we did at the Jubilee sing-a-long. I look at us all dressed up in red, white and blue; waving our arms and giggling with hilarity. And I burst out laughing.

Having an Affair...

It's not easy letting go.

The day after renouncing Hair, I have to go to the Town Hall. Which triggers all the usual rituals, including careful creation of a non-mad hairstyle (grooming is a fabulous way to deflect suspicions that one is going a bit la la).

Today I sport a newly highlighted mane (good God, how can a few strips of bleach cost so much???) which has been gelled into something interestingly bouffant. We are in the middle of painting the bedroom, so I have been unable to get into my wardrobe, and have only found something to wear by sliding my hand through the available three inch crack and feeling my way along my frock collection. This braille-like system for trying to identify each one hasn't proved particularly reliable, yet I manage to pull out something good enough to keep the Witches quiet.

But the primary purpose of my Town Hall visit today is lunch with Private Colleague! And really - I could be wearing my dressing gown for all either of us care.

We meet in a restaurant which no-one else is likely to walk into, knowing we need to keep our meeting highly discreet. In fact our behaviour is akin to co-workers sneaking off for an illicit dalliance. Private Colleague, you see, works in a team headed up by Spiteful Manager, and she freely admits to me that he is prone to interrogate his staff on where they have been and what they have been talking to certain people about (particularly when it is me !!).

So for the time being, we have decided to go to ground.

I have always liked and respected Private Colleague. After the chat we have recently been enjoying via our personal email addresses, we are feeling close; so the lunch which is meant to last for one hour effortlessly extends into two. She tells me all about the recent incident when Line Manager (mine not hers) started shouting at her in the middle of the office. I sit there feeling amazed that Line Manager should - unbelievably - repeat the actions which saw him hauled into a Disciplinary Hearing at the start of the year, while the words of Gorgeous GP reverberate through my mind ("the people you work for seem to be incredibly stupid"....)

Private Colleague also tells me that New Boss has now delivered a formal edict that no-one is to talk to him about work matters ! All queries and issues have to be taken to his two generals aka Deputy Boss and Line Manager. Which is fine as a theory of leadership and management - except that, much as I adore Deputy Boss, he can't lead; and Line Manager most certainly can't manage....

I am wondering how all this squares with New Boss's repeated exhortations that he wants us all to be a family! His family is horribly dysfunctional, lacking in loyalty, support or compassion. It's one I just want to run away from. (In fact I keep feeling an overwhelming impulse to burst through the doors of the Policy Unit, or Planning, or Administration screaming "adopt me! One of you, please please adopt me!!!")

Private Colleague and I discuss at length why we don't simply go and find another job. Because of course we stay where we are because we have reasons. The reasons have bugger all to do with work satisfaction or loyalty to the organisation, and far much more to do with the fact that: we both have outside commitments, we don't want or need further disruption, there are worse jobs out there, and frankly there might not be any jobs out there (and, in my case, the fact that I can walk to work and don't have to get on a tube train).

So we conclude that staying suits us overall, as long as we can keep our heads down, and avoid all the shrapnel and flak...

At about 3pm, Private Colleague and I decide that we had better meander back to our current family unit, which we approach warily and then separate ten yards from the Town Hall entrance so that we can walk into the department through separate doors.....

Afterwards, we exchange emails saying how helpful we both found it, and how good it felt to reconnect. And that we must do it again very soon.

Monday 16 July 2012

Hair today, gone tomorrow..

Lunch today with my friend Lynn. I feel like I have known Lynn for years, although we have probably only been talking at depth for twelve months or so. She is one of the best things to have emerged from my current employment, as we only met each other through work.

It is usual for us to swap stories about inadequate line management, which always gives me an acute sense of relief (thank God I am Not Alone...) But today we end up talking about ways of connecting more deeply with our creativity, and how outside interests like singing, acting and writing can help shift perception and make the rest of life easier to cope with. It is such an interesting conversation that our lunch date lasts almost 2 hours.

I'm wearing jeans today. Smart ones, but still jeans. It would be unthinkable for me to go to the Town Hall wearing jeans, but now I have stopped going over there my ironing pile has reduced gratifyingly as my clothing choices have become narrower. I'm also wearing glasses because I couldn't be bothered to put my contact lenses in this morning, and my hairstyle is leaving quite a lot to be desired...

My overall appearance is still eminently respectable, but I am now realising that the meticulous morning preparations undertaken for my Town Hall days have rather less to do with the slim chance I might bump into a Councillor (ie someone who might complain to the Chief Executive about appearances ill-befitting Council officers), and rather more to do with waving two merry fingers at The Others. In fact sometimes I make a point of reserving a new outfit's First Outing for team meetings !!

But now - oh deary me. I could spend an extra ten minutes each morning straightening my hair, but given that no-one is going to see it except nice people who aren't going to judge me, I prefer to spend those precious seconds writing or reading...

Lynn is a working mum, yet someone who looks effortlessly groomed and glamorous. I conclude that I need to adopt more grooming short cuts! Because rather like Shirley Conran (who told us all two decades ago that life was too short to stuff a mushroom); I am starting to think that fannying about with my hair and obsessionally rotating my frock collection are presenting major obstacles to my creative leanings because they are taking up valuable TIME.

Paring down my working hours even further is one option, but frankly I have already truncated them as far as I am able, and if I continue down that particular road I imagine I will get a summons from my Director. And Husband is not going to take kindly to slipping down my list of priorities.

I need to make more space in my life.
Sorry, Hair.
You have drawn the short straw..

Tea, Toast and Trust

I spend some of the weekend with one of the young women I am currently supporting (a commitment which fills my life with meaning and brings me endless rewards).

We go to a cafe which sells vintage clothes and very nice handmade cards, and order tea and toast.

I recently heard someone wise describe these very special relationships as 'friendships with a purpose'. And this seems like a perfect description to me.

It's not all intense soul-searching - a lot of the time we just chat and laugh. But there is, of course, always a purpose and the purpose is healing. So when I suddenly hear her say 'I have never told anyone this before', I inwardly hold my breath because I know that her healing has begun.

Many young women have confided in me, just as I confided in others all those years ago, just as I would still confide if something dark, or shameful, or dangerous entered my life. These confidences are things I would never repeat to another living being, and to be honest I mainly try and forget about them. Because the content of what is shared isn't really that important.

What's important is the decision to trust. The decision to drag ugly secrets out into the light of day. The decision to move forward, untrammelled by the past.

It's the best decision I ever made.
I am so happy my young friend has started to move in the same direction.

Casting call

I return home to a number of text messages, one of which is from the director of the amateur drama production I have just auditioned for.

In the intervening few days, I have got my head around the idea of playing Faithful Old Retainer so it comes as a slight shock to see he is asking if I am interested in a completely different part. Admittedly, it is a man's role (hmmm, seems as though I am to be permanently sewn into a pair of breeches for the next few productions.....) but it's a fabulous part, so this is a minor consideration !!

I am impressed by the flexible approach shown by this amateur drama company, which merrily casts women in men's parts all the time (possibly having something to do with the fact that - rather like my community choir - the women appear to outnumber the men by a ratio of 10:1)

I send an enthusiastic text back accepting the role, then an hour later it dawns on me that his text only asked if I was interested. I am reminded of the time when I was once charged with making a phone call to an agent offering one of their clients a considerable amount of work. And I did it rather well - except that I rang the wrong agent about the wrong actor. (Hmm, not one of my better workplace memories...)

I await the text or phone call politely pointing out that I have slightly jumped the gun.

At least in this instance, if I have misinterpreted the message, there is no harm done!
I start to plan the best type of beard I should sport as Faithful Old Retainer...

Sunday 15 July 2012

Medicine Woman

It's a sunny (yes!!) Sunday morning and we "should" be tackling the garden (the conventional term for the patch of overgrown waste ground at the back of our house). Instead we head off into central London for a morning chamber concert.

I am feeling below par, and have an irritating cough. So, in the manner of somone listening to airline safety procedures, as soon as I sit down I clock the nearest exit so that I can make a break for it if necessary.

Brahms suits my mood, being calming and melodious. Unfortunately it is so very calming that I catch myself nodding off at several points. However, this passes unnoticed, as the average age of the audience appears to be about 70.

They are a terribly civilised crowd, despite some unseemly elbowing in the ribs in the rush to get to the sherries. Naturally, Husband and I are back out into the street long before things deteriorate. I am in a slightly self-piteous mood which lasts all through our assault upon the garden (yes, we return in time to undertake this task) and until we arrive at the 6pm Support Group meeting.

I am accosted as soon as we walk up the path. Will I please be the main speaker tonight, as the one booked has just cancelled?

I really really don't want to. I mean - really. As well as the cough, I now have a headache and a queasy tum, and I am feeling extremely vexed because my Kindle has stopped working, my laptop won't let me onto the internet, and today I was forced to ask a teenager in a phone shop why I could no longer access emails from my mobile phone (answer: "you need to enable your cookies".  wha...??? It was simpler to just give her the phone and let her sort it out for me....). I have developed an irrational hatred of information technology over the past 24 hours, and this has translated itself into a consequent and equally irrational resentment towards most of humanity.

"Yes" I hear myself say.
Bugger.

Husband sees me sitting up at the top of the table and makes questioning gestures. I give a miniscule jerk of my head towards the woman who asked me - someone in comparatively early days who radiates conviction and good recovery. My mime is intended to convey the message "how could I say no?" and Husband laughs quietly to himself.

It is always a humbling experience being the main speaker at a meeting, and this evening even more so. Because I have known many of these people for years, and some recall meeting me at their first ever meeting. I am described by one attendee as "a strong woman with so much to give". Good Lord. This makes me feel like a terrible fraud, and I am only glad that I never try to be something I am not  - for example, being quite honest about the fact that at one point today I wanted to take my laptop out into the street and smash it to smithereens with a hammer. (And I am Not Kidding. I had actually taken the hammer out of Husband's toolbox and placed it by the front door.....).

I still can't quite accept it when people say nice things about me. I seem far readier to listen to a very small minority (yes! my less-than lovely co-worker clique) who have painted me as a demon....

Two hours later I am back at home, feeling extremely unwell all over again. So I don't quite understand how I was able to sit for 90 minutes in the meeting, first talking and then listening, without at any stage feeling ill. Except that the woman running the meeting clearly knew what was good for me better than I did myelf...

It's all very strange and very miraculous.
And terribly, wonderfully, addictive.

Saturday 14 July 2012

Facebook Generation

I've held out for about 3 years, but now I have finally cracked!

I am activating my defunct and useless Facebook account, which has remained untouched since I registered it. Mainly because people who were in the play have nudged me into doing so....

It's hard to understand why I have been so resistant, but it's mainly because I haven't had the first clue how to adjust the privacy settings. But I think I have now managed to work them out. I think.

I suspected that there might be a few Friend requests building up, but when I finally sit and look through them, I am riveted. Because - OMG!! There is the pal I used to hang around with all the time when I was embarking upon teenagehood (the one who taught me the word "grimble"...). There is the girl with the enviably long eyelashes whose family kept a pig on their little small holding. And there is - my brother?? Good Lord. I had no idea he was even on Facebook!

My initial registration with this social network was around the time of my school reunion, and then only so I could access some photos which a former classmate (and our one-time Head Girl) had posted up. I loved the reunion, far more than I had thought I would. Seeing people who were so significantly a part of my formative years was unexpectedly moving and delightful, and among the photographs now adorning my office wall is one of me standing beside my old Headmaster (whose comment in my final report was "there were times when I did not think Katharine and the school would survive a seven year relationship".....)

It was great, after so many years, to finally have a chance to thank him for all the opportunities the school gave me.

So I have populated my "Wall" with a couple of photos, and my profile with some basic information. And tomorrow I will start confirming Friend requests, in the hope that I may be forgiven for my cravenly dilatory responses....

Deja Vu

I am finding it hard to adjust to working "normal hours" ie my allotted 35 hours per week, after working for up to 60 hours a week for the past couple of years. Despite responding to all my emails, completing the projects required of me, and strategically showing my face at meetings chaired by senior officers (just so they don't entirely forget about me, you understand) I keep being assailed by the conviction that I am not doing any work.

It's most strange.

I reassure myself with the fact that when I do sit down in front of the computer, I am very focused and fast. This is greatly assisted by having my own office, enabling me to complete three hours' worth of tasks in one; which frees me up to go downstairs to the cafe and sit sipping an Americano while chatting to reception staff and flicking through the assortment of celebrity magazines disdainfully stacked under copies of the Sunday Times' Culture section. (My Kindle, you will recall, is currently moribund. It is an ex-Kindle).

Now if I was over at the Town Hall right now, what could I be doing......?

 1. I could be jammed into a too-small temporary office space with some people who are very VERY unpleasant towards me.

 2. I could be listening to Ex-Army Man barking out our daily orders (as Private Colleague put it recently "I don't know what has got into him"....)

 3. I could be endlessly distracted by the banshee screeching in which Remora specialises

 4. Endless hours could be being wasted by colleagues (understandably practising "Pass the Monkey") putting calls through to me on the most spurious of grounds

 5. I could be joining endless discussions about what should be stocked in the stationery cupboard (naturally Post-It notes - that vital office item - were "cut" some years ago, which is why I always have my own secret supply in a lockable drawer)

 6. I could be listening to co-workers using the office phones - despite clear directives that this is strictly verboten, and that such calls must be made out of the office on our own mobiles - to book their cars in for MOTs, coo to their children, and discuss the garage extension with their builders

7. The decades-old argument about whether the office is too hot or too cold, necessitating fine tuning and recalibration of the heating and air-con systems on a daily basis, could be into its 1,576th chapter

8. I could be watching New Boss flinging open the door of his office and strutting forth, making sexist and patronising comments to the women; and blokey, macho comments to the men

9. I could be queueing up for the printer, only for it to jam yet again as soon as I touch it

10. I could be listening to Line Manager shouting at a co-worker.

Hang on a second.......
Let's just go back over that last one again.

I could be listening to Line Manager shouting at a co-worker....???

Naturally I am not entirely removed from what goes on at the Town Hall, because the Decent People are communicating with me on a regular basis. And when I hear of this latest incident, I experience a head-swimming moment of despair.

Line Manager, you see, shouted at me a year ago. Appallingly and humiliatingly, in front of junior colleagues. And when - after a decade of grim and hopeless "management" (I use the term loosely) I finally stood up for myself and took out a grievance, the organisation treated him as the victim and me as the aggressor. So despite the Council's disciplinary procedures finally resulting in some risible "justice", Line Manager did everything possible to persuade the Hierarchy that the incident was entirely out of character and that furthermore it was all my fault. And some of them believed him.

But here we go again!

I ponder over the weekend. Because it has suddenly dawned on me that all the Decent People have started confiding in me about the things that have happened to them. How Line Manager has behaved towards them, the stupidly offensive things New Boss has said to the women, the many instances of Spiteful Manager's mistreatment of his staff. And I think "just a mo, why - after years of fearful silence - why are you suddenly telling me all this??"

And then I think "Oh God, you want me to help you".

As I learned, belatedly to my cost, I was the only person who kept my mouth shut about what was going on between myself and Line Manager. Which was pointless in hindsight, because everyone else knew. The Jackals knew, and relished it. Senior officers from other departments knew - because they told me. And of course the Decent People knew. They knew that I had finally made a stand, and asserted my right not to be bullied. I suspect they think, because Line Manager was eventually given a formal reprimand, that I "won".

And I feel very tired. Because I think the Decent People are now looking to me to "do something". And while I am happy to support them in any way I can, I am never going to "do" anything with regard to the bullying, and mis-management, and unprofessionalism within my department or organisation ever EVER again.

Sorry. No can do.

No can go through all the stress, the misery, the isolation, the slow dismantling of every organisational value I once respected. No can do the weekends locked in my office hunting out the emails to disprove yet another lie Line Manager had fabricated to my detriment, no can do the shock of realising Remora had inveigled her way into the proceedings. No can do the impact on my poor husband, the family lunch that was ruined by me being full of fear, no can do the doctor's visits and the crying in my sleep.

I am not going to fight anyone else's battles for them.
Sorry.
I just can't.

Thursday 12 July 2012

And it's Even Better to Listen

I have spent the afternoon in prison with Paddy - an Irishman in his sixties.

I adore Paddy who swears like a navvy, and is deliciously blunt. Recently I was washing up with him after a Support Group meeting and splashed him by accident - whereupon he said "get out of my f***ing way, you're f***ing useless like all women.."

He's a HOOT !!

He is also someone absolutely full of love.
Rough diamond, tell it like it is, "none of this nancy boy hugging, mind you", love.

Paddy attends up to 10 Support Group meetings a week and seems to devote his entire life to service. Not surprisingly, there is an air of deep contentment and happiness about the man.

I never like going into prison, but today I feel OK because I am with Paddy. His presence makes all the preliminaries - having my fingerprints scanned, getting a pat down search, having to open my mouth to have it examined for contraband, waiting endlessly for doors to be unlocked, and walking onto a wing where the prisoners are all out of their cells - bearable and even quite funny.

We sit in an empty cell while waiting for the warder to collect the men who have put their names down for the Support Group meeting we are running. The warder is most apologetic. "Some of them are refusing to come because they are playing pool". "That's OK" I tell him. "It's completely up to them".

In the end, there are only 5 of us gathered in the cell. Paddy, myself and 3 prisoners.

I used to feel that I had to describe my past circumstances in the worst possible terms, just so that these men would accept me and my message would not be lost on them. But these days I am just myself. "Quite posh" as New Boss likes to describe me. But not so posh, that I don't know what it's like to be brought to my knees.

One of the prisoners is articulate and well educated. He is honest about the fact he intends to carry on drinking and using on release. A bit later he mentions his plans to go back into Higher Education. I suspect, that as someone who has completed a lengthy prison sentence for dealing heroin, he will find his plans trickier to realise than he imagines, particularly if he carries on using. But it is not for me to say.

The second prisoner is loud, brash and full of braggadocio. He reminds me of myself when younger. So I am not surprised that when he has the opportunity to speak in the quiet of the cell with everyone listening intently, he finds it much harder to talk. But that's not a bad thing. Because we all need to learn how to listen.

The third is introverted and quiet, but I can see that he is taking everything in. He speaks towards the end, and briefly expresses his wish to stop hurting the people around him, be a proper dad to his kids, and "be a better person". I think he has a chance. But I know they ALL have a chance.

Because I did.

My plan is to return to my office and carry on with the work I started in the morning. Paddy drives me back there, but when I sit down in front of the computer I am assailed with a profound and inexplicable exhaustion. Curling up on my handy two-chair arrangement, I sleep for almost an hour.

Thank you Lord for giving me a private office with comfy chairs and a lockable door.

And thank you for giving me the freedom to unlock that door whenever I want to and walk out into the rain.

It's Good to Talk

I haven't met up with Sue Inner Circle for almost a fortnight. We were meant to go and see a film together 2 weeks ago, but at the last minute she called to say all her travel arrangements were up the spout, and so we met for a coffee instead. Looking back on it, everything worked out as it was meant to. Because in fact she was upset about a few things and needed to talk.

Our relationship is far from being one-sided. Sue Inner Circle is the person I was with when I happened to see Spiteful Manager in the far distance (I was off sick suffering from chronic stress, and by ill luck we had decided to go and see a film in a cinema a tad too close to the Town Hall). Sue Inner Circle steadied me as I almost had a panic attack on the escalator, and looked after me as sensitively as if I had been her own child. She never, at any point, said "that's just silly".

So last night we met in an attractive bistro between both our homes, and enjoyed a lovely long chat over endless cups of Earl Grey. Sue has lost a stone and is looking really good - healthy and glowing. We catch up on each other's news, discuss our respective work situations, and I tell her about the play.

One of our shared characteristics is that we are both very sensitive. So when Sue appears less than enthusiastic about my news, I start to wonder if I have upset her by not telling her about it until it was all over. I explain that I just didn't want anyone to come and see me this first time because it has been so long since I got up on a stage, and she says "of course, I completely understand". But I still feel faintly worried about it.

Later, while sitting in a Support Group meeting (without Sue, who is a regular attender at the 7am meeting instead), I keep thinking about the conversation and whether or not I have upset her. Because I would absolutely hate to do that.

Sue rings me today, full of excitement about an unexpected success she has had at work. I feel really pleased for her, as she shares all the details with me. I ask her if she was upset by the discussion last night, and she sounds baffled. I realise that she was probably just not that interested (in the nicest possible way! After all, her new passion is learning to play classical guitar; and I probably only asked her two or three things about that before we changed subjects).

Yet again, I am reminded of the dangers of doing other people's thinking for them....

"I really do love you" she says as she rings off. I tell her I love her too.

It's so wonderful to have friends.
Real friends. Who only want the best for you.

Wednesday 11 July 2012

Typecasting...

Some years ago (ok, ok, some decades ago) I went along to callbacks for a university production of "The Wizard of Oz". I really really wanted to get the part of The Scarecrow!

Upon arrival I did the usual - looked around to see if anyone else I knew was there, filled in the requisite form, went outside for a fag - then sat twiddling my thumbs for some minutes before it dawned on me that about ten of us had been called to the 5pm callback slot, and that furthermore we were all approximately five feet tall.

I cleared my throat before uttering one word to the assembled company:

"Munchkins".....

On that occasion, being a bit of a disappointed diva, I left.
But tonight, when a similar scenario arises at my second amateur drama audition, I stay.
Because things are different now.

The play is a Shakespearean comedy of which I am very fond - in fact I played the lead role at university. I am too old for that part now, but I fancy doubling a couple of the other character roles.

The director, however, seems to have other ideas. At first I think he has asked me to read for the faithful old retainer as a joke. Faithful Old Retainer being a Man. However, it eventually dawns on me that he is Not Kidding !!!

But there is no stomping out. No huffing and puffing. No diva dramas. Because - thank God! - I have changed. I sit patiently and watch all the other auditionees and though I inwardly wince at one or two of the performances, I really enjoy watching the majority. And as I sit there, I think "well, Faithful Old Retainer might be interesting". And "it might be a challenge". And "well, I'd just quite like to do another play around November time, and it doesn't really matter what it is".

During the run of the last play, people were kind enough to say some nice things about my performance. But the best compliments of all came from the Assistant Stage Manager and Assistant Director. They both thanked me for all the extra help I had given the production as a whole - "above and beyond the call of duty" said one.

That night I went home feeling very happy.
Because I felt I had been useful.

Mental Health - it's All in the Mind

Three weeks ago I sent Line Manager a polite email requesting that he please approve my participation in a forthcoming training course entitled "Mental Health Awareness". (This is, you will be aware, a subject in which I have a particular interest).

Typically, I receive absolutely NO response from Line Manager; and whereas once upon a time I would have sent him little nudging reminders, these days I simply can't be a***d. I just contact the organisers myself and book a provisional place on the course, confirmation pending the day Line Manager finally gets round to responding to month-old emails....

But - oh dear! Today an email is circulated advising all and sundry that Line Manager is off undergoing surgery for an old war wound. I was vaguely aware of his imminent absence, but as I no longer visit the Town Hall or spend any time in my department, the op thing slipped my mind some time ago.

So I forward my training request to New Boss asking if, in lieu of Line Manager, he could please approve my attendance on the course. His grudging assent pops up shortly thereafter, although he advises me he is making a magnanimous exception because "technically the course is for officers coming or likely to come into contact with people affected by mental health issues".

?*?!?@!?

Firstly, New Boss has got it all wrong. The course is clearly aimed at anyone within the Council who thinks they might find it helpful. It's an internal course which has been promoted via our intranet to all employees. And secondly, I come into contact with people affected by mental health issues on a daily basis ! For God's sake, we all do !!! The whole point of the course is to dispel some of the stigmas and misconceptions around mental health, enabling us to offer better support to our colleagues for example.

So when I read New Boss's email, a red mist temporarily descends in front of my eyes and I am forced to embark upon The Emergency Procedures.

- Breathe, breathe, breathebreathebreathe, breeeeeeeaaaaathe.
- Adopt the Downward Dog position and hold for three minutes.
- Gaze into a candle flame whilst reciting a reliable mantra.
- Offer up serenity prayers to the Good Lord above.
- Have a nice cup of tea and a biscuit.

Due to rapid deployment of these crucial measures, I manage not to send New Boss the first email which comes into my head. The one which runs:

"Thanks New Boss! You will, of course, be aware of the impact and cost of mental health problems upon large organisations such as our own! You will know, for example, that the average cost of mental health problems in England stands at £105.2 billion per year (taking into account all associated costs). You're familiar with the fact that stress, anxiety and depression are responsible for 70 million days sick leave every year! You have already demonstrated your ability to listen non-judgementally to members of your staff who tell you their GP has diagnosed that they are suffering from workplace anxiety ("that's just silly" - remember that one??) You are an expert on stress, anxiety and depression because, as you took pains to tell me the other day when I asked if you were OK, you are "always OK" (unlike your pathetically mortal staff, who are mere human beings prone to icky things like feelings...) You are thoughtful, a good listener and empathy just oozes out of your every pore. I can only feel thankful that a sensitive little soul such as myself - who had five weeks sick leave earlier in the year as a result of "workplace stress" - has ended up under the command of someone like you.

Wha..? You didn't know all that?? Even though you are paid £90k + a year ??
OMG! You really ARE as big a c*** as you pretend to be!! (And I thought you were just faking..)

If I might make a wee suggestion, New Boss?
Why don't YOU sign up for the Mental Health Awareness course?
That way there might be some hope for the rest of us poor f***ers...."

Nope! I manage not to send any of it.

Instead, I wait 24 hours, slip into my Stepford Employee pinafore, and respond with impressive (hell, it impresses me) brevity.

"Noted.
Thank you".

Frocks and Frills

I've booked a day's leave (yes - officially!) so that I can spend some time with one of my sisters. I head to Liverpool Street where I meet her train, and then we head off to the "Ballgowns" exhibition at the V & A to ooh and aahh over Norman Hartnell, Belville Sasson and Elizabeth Emmanuel creations. The dresses are gorgeous; although I find I have to avert my eyes from the endless blah about court presentations, Queen Charlotte's Ball, and the fact that a particular gown was once worn by a minor scion of the aristocracy while dancing reels in a draughty Scottish castle...

There's some old film footage of a line of women waiting to meet the Queen Mother, and as they genuflect on her passing, it seems to me extraordinary that people would willingly abase themselves before another human being, and yet be so resistant to acknowledging a Power greater than themselves....

Oh well. There is still nothing I like more than spending hours peering at elaborate beading, pintucking, embroidery and ruffles!!!

 My sister is incredibly easy to be with. Ever since emerging from our teenage years when we regularly displayed terrifying levels of violence towards each other, we have simply just got on. I can't think of an occasion when she has annoyed or vexed me (although I suspect she would be unable to say the same of me!) and I always feel extremely relaxed in her company.

We have a lovely lunch in the room with the splendid lamps, then head off to Oxford Street for some retail therapy. We try on lots of items, most of which we conclude either look ghastly or are over-priced: but as I have an innate psychological resistance to going home without at least one purchase, I buy something nice I find hanging on the sale racks. (Yes. A dress. "Only" £30 as I later inform Husband...)

My sister and I part with great amity at around 6pm. I get a text from her later saying what a lovely day she has had. And I feel exactly the same.

Monday 9 July 2012

The Swishing Shut of the Curtain

"They've gone. It's all over".

And these words, which come very near the end of the play I have been immersed in for the past two months, are now seeming more than usually sad.

Because it IS.
All over.

The curtain has closed on the final performance, we have all dismantled the set, the costumes have been carried upstairs or taken to various homes to be laundered, and the props have been packed up, ready for return.

After striking the set, we all gather in the bar for our cast party. I'm not much of a party person these days. In fact, I am not sure I ever was the ideal party guest (arriving late, hiding booze, holding court, and behaving like a twat means you tend to get invited to parties so people have someone to laugh at, not because anyone actually likes you). But I have already determined that it would be very sad not to go to this party.

It's actually quite a sedate affair - for the period I am there, at any rate. We have all brought along some very nice nibbles, and the barman makes me cups of tea upon request. Everyone is "lit up" in a good way (exhilarated and happy), and the director and crew receive our gifts and make funny, touching speeches.

Two hours later, in the taxi coming home (which I am bloody lucky to get, considering it is 2am and coming down in torrents), I reflect on how much I must have changed. Because after thinking I would find it very hard to fit in, I have in fact had lots of fascinating conversations at the party, learning about one girl's degree course, and another's family history; about the stage manager's long association with the group, a fellow actor's long term relationship, and of course lots of laughs with my "kindred spirit" Kelly.

Wow, I think. Other people really are so very very interesting.
And these people are so nice as well !!

There are some auditions for a future production this week.
I think you can safely guarantee that I will be there.

Stepford Employee has a Bellyful

Throughout the gruelling grievance procedures which have dominated the past year, I never discussed the matter with anyone; whereas its subject (Line Manager) dragged several of my other colleagues into the process. How this squared up with everyone's requirement to observe strict confidentiality throughout the proceedings, I was never quite able to understand. But unsurprisingly, I ended up feeling totally isolated and paranoid; unsure whom was siding with whom, who to trust, and who I could even speak to.

It's been the most miserable, upsetting and disillusioning experience of my entire working career. But I am now mounting a comeback!

Its not about embarking on new battles or adding to the appalling goings-on in my workplace. I would simply like to restore a sense of connection with the many lovely people I have the privilege of working with. But I have no intention of doing any of this "connecting" in front of the Others.

As specialists in Schadenfreude, they cannot bear to see me (or anyone else) happy, confident, and interacting with others; and I know that as soon as they register I am getting close to a co-worker, they will do whatever they can to undermine the relationship.

Clinical paranoia? No, this has happened too often to be coincidence.
Plus occasionally the Decent People have the courage to tell me what is going on.

So I have gone to ground....

My interactions with the Decent People now take place entirely away from the office environment, where over lunch or coffee or via our personal mobile phones we chat about life in general - and only very occasionally share our sadness about what has happened to our Dear Little Department. But as it happens, Continental Colleague and Maternal Colleague have the misfortune to be under the command of Spiteful Manager and their anecdotes reveal the Wonderfully Reassuring Truth - that I have not imagined a single thing!!! This brings me some peace of mind; as I comfort myself with the fact that God is not mocked and that He is the only one who can manage this situation.

It is only relatively recently that I have started to reconnect with Private Colleague - someone I have always respected and admired, but whose relationship with Remora (the single most sociopathic person I have ever met) I have never been able to fathom. Private Colleague and I have recently shared some personal confidences, and I have actually felt comfortable enough to tell her about the chronic anxiety I am experiencing in relation to the workplace.

When I ask Private Colleague for her personal email address, she willingly gives it to me. And so we have now embarked upon a "conversation" that I don't think we would ever be able to have in the office. Already, however, I sense that what she tells me is going to shake my equanimity.

She alludes to a recent example of appalling workplace conduct resulting in Line Manager (mine, not hers!) reducing her to tears. She muses on how he has survived for so long without being marched off the premises. She tells me of conversations New Boss has held with her; of a level of insensitivity and rudeness matched only by the ones he has had with me !!

I know all this should make me feel a sense of vindication, connection and alliance. But all I feel is ANGRY. I feel angry that Private Colleague - a woman of integrity, intelligence and discernment - is yet another person being mistreated and reduced to tears when all she wants to do is come to work and get on with her job. I feel more angry about what is happening to Private Colleague than I do about what has happened to me.

It takes me three days to respond.
But when I do, I share back with equal frankness and honesty.
Because I have had ENOUGH of all this crap; and the only way the Decent People are going to survive is by sticking together.

And realising that we are not alone.

Stepford Employee gets an Eyeful

I have to pop into our "temporary" departmental home pending our office move. Only one problem - I haven't a clue where it is !!

Ex-Army Man elects not merely to give me clear orientation instructions and a compass, but to show me the way personally. I thank him sweetly for his consideration, while knowing full well that his enthusiasm is motivated by nothing more than yet another attempt to demonstrate his indispensability to New Boss.

I am beginning to think that if Ex-Army Man crawls any further up New Boss's fundament, we shall have to send out a search party for his retrieval ! Most normal people would eschew such blatant toadying and obsequiousness; but Ex-Army Man seems oblivious to the fact that his fawning is causing his co-workers to cringe in shame for him.

He ushers me into the partitioned cubbyholes which comprise our temporary offices, and proceeds (loudly) to give me a guided tour. Frankly, I would rather grope my way blindfolded towards our office equipment than have Ex-Army Man portentously informing me “this is the printer”, but like a good Stepford Employee I say “thank you sooo much” before turning to see if the coast is clear of Jackals.

Oh. Most strange. The only other inhabitants of our temporary offices at this moment are the Decent People – Continental Colleague, Maternal Colleague, Private Colleague. But the room is completely silent.

This has started happening more and more. Silence never used to be a feature of our department. Colleagues used to chat freely and happily upon a range of subjects – their holidays, their new sofa, who they thought would win “The Apprentice”. But now? It is like I have been parachuted into a totalitarian regime where everyone is scared to speak lest their neighbour betray them.

(I do not count the Jackals of course. The Jackals make a LOT of noise – because they have positioned themselves as the Stasi….)

Instinctively I lower my voice as I say hello to the Decent People individually. I need their help to complete a document and email it through to meet a deadline, and their decency shines through as they help me – readily, generously and efficiently. But very VERY quietly, while I scan their lowered heads and lowered eyes; and wonder what the f*** has happened to these lovely colleagues.

I don’t stay long, as the atmosphere is frighteningly oppressive. But as I exit the temporary office, New Boss is arriving on the other side of the door. Unlike the Decent People, he is loud. Loud, arrogant and overbearing.

“How are you?” he asks me, in the tone of voice which brooks no weakness and dares me to answer “I am feeling completely crap”.

At this point in time, I am suffering a slight resurgence of anxiety symptoms (chest pains, breathlessness) as well as still being on medication for my mild labyrinthitis.

“Fine, thank you,” I tell him. “I am feeling absolutely fine”.

Friday 6 July 2012

Stepford Employee gets an Earful

After a delightful two week sojourn away from the Town Hall, I am forced to return because we have a "team" meeting. I would endeavour to skive off somehow; except that I have arranged to bring a guest to it - a straight-talking (yes! another Northerner....) female police officer with whom I am now coming into contact on a regular basis.

I collect Female Police Officer from reception, and by the time we have wended our way through the building site into which the Town Hall has now transformed itself, we are the last to arrive at the meeting.

There are only two free seats around the entire table. Line Manager demonstrates unusual civility (unusual, in that he has never demonstrated this characteristic to me) and ushers Female Police Officer into the seat next to himself. As he is chairing the meeting, this is only right and fitting so I head past them and only then register that the other empty seat is directly next to Remora.

(Ah! Remora. Thereby hangs a tale etc etc etc...)

I am unable to avoid the unavoidable, and gain some consolation from the fact that on my other side sits Private Colleague - a woman with whom I have always felt great affinity, and whose quiet external demeanour conceals a razor sharp brain and great wit. (The only thing preventing me from a closer relationship with Private Colleague is I have never been quite sure of how intimate she is with Remora...)

After Female Police Officer has finished her agenda item, I escort her to the main entrance. Upon returning to the meeting, I pause outside listening to what sounds like a violent altercation within. Good God! What can be happening? All is revealed when I enter to witness Remora in Full Flight Mode, performing her famed Screaming Banshee act.

What has prompted this, you ask?
Why has Remora ratcheted up the volume??
Has Ex-Army Man squeezed her a**e or Line Manager slapped her round the chops???

No. Upon further aural investigation, it appears that Remora has embarked upon one of her screeching, melodramatic monologues for no reason whatsoever ! Comme d'habitude.

I could now sit down next to Line Manager - and two minutes later I rather wish I had. Because politeness leads me back to my original seat where I am then forced to sit in close proximity to Remora's terrifying crescendo. Thanking God for a convenient hairstyle, I subtly slip my palms beneath the curtains on either side of my face, as if I am resting my chin on my hands. I am finding the whole performance quite disturbing, and examine the other attendees' faces in turn, wondering why no-one appears to be reacting to what is clearly a case of incipient hysteria.

Not a flicker.

I experience that weird sensation of swimming through a vat of treacle, barely able to move my limbs - a feeling of disconnection from reality...

Later, Life Coach Colleague (who has just returned from holiday) rings me for a chat and to fill me in on all his news. We move onto the subject of that afternoon's meeting.

"Ha ha ha!" he chortles. "Your body language was so funny! Do you know - at one point, it looked as though you had your fingers in your ears!"

"Ah," I tell him. "Hmmm. Oh dear. The thing is - I did. I did have my fingers in my ears".

I think I might need to grow my hair a wee bit longer....

Thursday 5 July 2012

Legally Blonde

The dispute with my neighbour is dragging on, despite me hoping it was all concluded. So perfidious has Mr Next Door turned out to be, that I am now deliberately writing all my own legal letters. In this way, I am at least spending no money; while he continues to fork out hundreds of pounds upon a specious - and please God, unwinnable - argument.

Anyone with an iota of common sense would surely have long since dropped the matter, but I have realised that my neighbour has made a fundamental error. He is now being fuelled by resentment. He has let it get personal.

Resentment is a dangerous thing. I look anew at my own conduct over the past year, and the extent to which I have allowed resentment and a sense of grievance to inflate issues way beyond their realistic proportions.

So I work with some malicious, envious, spiteful bitches (of both sexes)...?
So f***ing what !!
There is only one motto to which I should be clinging and that is:

"Living Well is the Best Revenge" !

So I carry on working, rehearsing, writing and going to Support Group meetings; while Mr Next Door's solicitor continues to present me with ridiculously unachievable timescales for my responses. I glean some satisfaction in meeting all their deadlines, without actually conceding a single point.

Yesterday, I drop off my latest missive in person. The receptionist takes it from me, signs the accompanying receipt, and casts a satirical eye in my direction. "You're not Katharine Ross, are you?" she says.

I don't feel legally bound to respond to rhetoric, so I fall back on the "mmmmm" thing; then leave while she is scuttling into the inner sanctum, conveying my special delivery to someone with expensively acquired legal qualifications.

This letter is one of my better efforts. In response to Mr Next Door's solicitor demanding that I bring forward a meeting by two days (because "this will better suit" their client); I have politely pointed out that - given they gave me less than 24 hours to arrange said meeting in the first place - I am unable to change the arrangements in any way whatsoever. This message is accompanied by insincere expressions of regret and apology.

Legals, schmegals.
It's all just acting.
And today I am trying to play Reece Witherspoon, sashaying around wearing a short dress, heels and fuchsia lipstick but (hopefully!) with a fully functioning brain under its blonde topcoat.

I really have no idea where this dispute is heading now.
But I won't be losing any sleep over it....

Dizzy Blonde

Two years ago I woke up, tried to get out of bed, and promptly collapsed to the floor retching while the room span nauseatingly around me.

No, I hadn't reverted to my solace of yore and gone on the lash.
I had developed acute labyrinthitis and it was a month before I was able to return to work.

Call me superstitious, but I have postponed writing about the scenario which faced me a week ago...

I wake to feelings of dizziness and nausea which cause me to bump into the walls as I try to get to the bathroom. A horrible sense of deju vu assails me and leaves me feeling sick in every possible way.

It isn't the thought of being off work for ages (a prospect which, frankly, I can contemplate with complete equanimity).

No.
It is the thought of letting down the 20 people who have been working so hard on our play.

Naturally, being amateurs, there are no understudies !
(Recently, when the director was asked what our Plan B was should anyone go sick, he responded: "There IS no Plan B".....)

Fortunately, the symptoms are not acute enough to prevent me making my way down to our local hospital. Having a Drama Queen moment? Not a bit of it. On phoning my GP, I learn that the first available appointment is two weeks hence. So I join the long queue of people at the hospital's Walk-In centre - the 21st Century's contribution to medical advancement.

Wow. The treatment I receive here is nothing short of spectacular! So good is it, that my loyalty to Gorgeous GP actually starts to waver....

The triage process is efficient and professional. The waiting is not inordinate. I get medication swiftly, which relieves some of the symptoms. And then I meet Sally, the Nurse Practitioner who will assess me.

I adore Sally ! She is one of the warmest, most lovely people I meet (out of many that day, in a clean, new clinic which inspires total confidence). Habituated to 5 mins of GP time, it feels unbelievably reassuring to have every bit of me poked and prodded; and my entire medical history interrogated.

"Well, you don't have a brain tumour!" laughs Sally merrily, once the barrage of tests has been completed. I pretend to laugh too, but naturally - being an appalling hypochondriac - I can't pretend the thought hasn't been flickering at the edge of my consciousness...

I am prescribed Procholorperazine. I was given this drug last time, and I seem to remember that it made me sleep all the time. But I feel concerned enough to take it without demur.

Fours hours after my arrival at hospital, I am discharged from their care into that of Husband who has arrived to collect me. We essay the walk home, very veeerrrryy slowly.

All I talk about is the play, and how impossible it is going to be to tell the director I am too unwell to perform. Husband looks unconvinced. "Nothing will stop you doing this play" he says. "Because you are obsessed with it".

For two days I munch Prochlorperazine and sleep a lot. Miraculously, by the time the Technical Rehearsal swings round, I am able to remember my lines and not bump into the furniture (the only two mandatory requirements for amateur actors...)

"See?" says Husband, as I sit sewing buttons onto my costume, and running through some speeches. "Totally obsessed".