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November 16, 2002
Home Sweet Home
So I’ve been back in London for six and a half weeks now. I’ve been planning to write a piece on being back in London, but have been too lazy; I’ve also been wanting to write a piece on Dublin in retrospect, but have been waiting to feel less homicidal towards my Dublin housemates. There have been reasons for not writing any of the pieces I’ve had in mind.
It’s a Saturday night, and a Mike Figgis film is on FilmFour right now. The alternative was seeing one of my favourite guitarists, Eric Roche, perform, but that would have involved returning to 12 Bar Club, not something I was prepared to do.
I had very specific ideas and expectations in my mind when I returned to London. Before I returned, even: I was struggling in Dublin and hesitant to even consider leaving, giving up. Even though it felt so fantastic to be back in London the two times I returned, I was still committed to trying to stick out my new life in Dublin, however unsatisfying. It was only when I considered the financial ramifications that I began to see a way out.
Back in Dublin, I had told myself that should I return to London, I would never take it for granted again, would never lurk long-term at home, but take advantage of all that was on offer: dance, music, classes, activities, random festivals, etc. Above all, I wanted to throw myself back into my dance classes and music, after my disappointing experiences of both in Dublin. London had metamorphosed from a city I bitterly disliked to one which had great resources and a flat I was very attached to.
I had also expected that my housemates would forward me my Irish salary and deposit very quickly. I had been paid two days before I left Dublin, and arrived in London with a bit over £100 and a job interview in Nottingham the next day; it would be four weeks before I received another paycheck, and even that one was not for a full week. I also had to cover my rent and accumulation of bills with that money.
Hence: change of plans. I’ve stayed in most nights, avoiding spending money when and where I could. I’m going on holiday in two weeks, and actually want to have something resembling money in my account when I return. I also never want to experience the financial horrors of my first weeks back in London, endlessly trying to pursue my money and remaining belongings in Dublin without success or much hope. So although there are things I would like to do, buy, replace – for example my three newly-dead potted palms – I enjoy my lifestyle too much right now to mind. I haven’t returned to my contemporary dance classes, only my Egyptian dance classes, which finish next week. For three years I’ve had some inexplicable block against belly dance classes, and right now they’re one of the things I’m enjoying the most about being back in London.
The hunt for Arabic music is going less well, unfortunately. Not only are gigs on Tuesdays, the same day as my dance classes, but whichever reason prevents me from going to the former also applies to dance classes. I’ve known for months that Faudel would be peforming a few weeks ago. I actually only know one song of his, ‘Tellement N’Brick’, which I used to dance to when I was working as a belly dancer. What I didn’t count on, after all those months of anticipation and build-up – when I decided to stay on in London, probably my first thought was that I would be able to see him after all – was that I would be suffering too much from a heavy night the night before and ended up quietly moaning to myself at home instead. Or maybe I went to sleep around the time Faudel was due on stage. Another Arabic band, Fantasia, was performing in nearby Camberwell a few Fridays ago. It would be within a few blocks of where my ex-boyfriend lives – who I have no intention of ever seeing again – yet I barely even considered that. Home, quick bath, and then to the bus stop. Two buses, both very frequent, would take me there. I got bored of waiting, and walked to the next stop. After 15 minutes, a 36 finally turned up. It made it as far as the next stop. New Cross Gate is not a vaguely pleasant place to wait for a bus at night, or at least on that night, so I slowly walked back the way I came. In half an hour, neither bus so much as showed. I returned home, desolate, and spent the rest of the evening chatting happily online with two Canadian friends.
On my previous visit to London, within minutes I was horrified by the attitude of Londoners, how aggressive and hostile they are. I’ve not noticed it since. Perhaps that has been due to my shift in perspective, being so readily grateful and happy to be here. Perhaps also due to not going out much, and avoiding heavily stressed strangers. I’m trying to think of the pleasant encounters I’ve had since I’ve been back, but few come to mind, except for the local shopkeepers; they’re very pleased that I’m back to stay, and tonight the owner of the nearby internet café – I only ever go there every few months, if even that often – asked me where I’d been, when I’d next drop by. Friendly male-bashing with a Virgin shop assistant. Eavesdropping on a Dublin couple on holiday in London while on a night bus. Normally I would spend each day feeling increasingly crushed by the negativity of London and its inhabitants, but little, except my Dublin housemates, have managed to break through my cheer.
This is partly due to improved working conditions. The two women who made our workload ridiculous have both left, and the other woman, Tracey, who made working hours an unbearable form of torture, accompanied by back pain, headaches and migraines, is on a six-week sick leave. My mornings are fairly lazy, my afternoons often absurdly busy, yet I get to spend most of my time working on technical problems, however mundane, which I do with great relish. We have a bizarre printing problem at work; I managed to fix one person’s computer, but then a pair of local IT visited and now nobody can print. In addition to the usual problems, I’ve created three Hotmail accounts, helped our surrogate boss with online shopping, and shown others how to use their computer more so that I can do their work less.
It’s everything IBM is not – including bankrupt – and although I have to stress that to myself at times, I’m oddly enjoying it. I think partly it’s due to being acknowledged and appreciated by my seven colleagues, who often beg me not to leave them. After being so interminally bored at IBM, it was a novelty and a relief to be busy again, but I’ve decided I prefer the middle ground. I also prefer functional equipment: I found the design specs for our fax machine, which is officially only capable of handling 12 pages at a time. Given there are seven lawyers each trying to fax documents of up to 60 pages at a time, the two times the printer has managed to scan 18 or 20 pages, I’ve decided it’s proof that it’s on its last legs. The photocopier can’t handle bulk photocopying, which is what we use it for, and the printer is confused as to which tray is which. Sometimes I get annoyed, sometimes I laugh. The rest of the time I spend frantically trying to find a memory card for the fax machine on the internet. One of the lawyers is occasionally patronising, but I get on well with her the rest of the time, and find myself missing her at weekends. Another of the lawyers is helping me with my council tax problems, which I would be more grateful for if I didn’t know he’s dodging his own council tax.
I think my main regrets are that I don’t have more money, and that the last weeks have not been more sociable. Being the email junkie that I am, it’s excruciating not to be able to email more at work, and to be too inhibited by phone bills to email from home. The first weeks when I returned were the most sociable, laying to rest my apprehensions about saying goodbye to all my friends followed by a casual hello again a few weeks later. Unfortunately that was the time when my head was most filled with confusion about what to do next, when I would have been best off at home spring cleaning my mind. Since starting this job at Hackney I’ve been chronically exhausted – I didn’t stay for the second belly dance class this week as I was yawning so much, I was afraid I’d be thrown out if the teacher caught me yawning yet again – and grateful for my quiet evenings at home, also for the commute home with one of the lawyers who lives nearby. The people I have the most contact with are my parents, a friend of my brother’s and my flatmate, also a friend I met in Nicaragua at New Year’s and who has recently moved from nearby to Bath. There are those I miss hearing from and seeing, especially those who were so much a feature of my day that I miss that regular contact with them. There are others who are obvious in their silence, who leave me intrigued and bemused; still others whose friendships I had hoped to build on by being here, but who have been otherwise busy and preoccupied. Had it been a few months ago, I would have been far more bothered and upset, but I’m satisfied with the time which I do manage to spend with friends, especially given my current energy levels and overall lack of availability.
I can keep my feelings about my Dublin housemates separate from those towards Dublin itself. One I despise bitterly, as for the other I feel sad that I didn’t enjoy it more, and hope to do so in the future. I think you know which is which. What it boiled down to, I think, is that I am not the kind of person who can settle easily in a city such as Dublin; I need too much which it – and many other cities – cannot offer, and which I am not prepared to do without. I did not resume my non-Celtic music career shortly before leaving London only to abandon it, nor was I comfortable with the idea of travelling outside Dublin once weekly for my contemporary dance class fix as a viable substitute for the four classes I had been taking weekly, exclusive of rehearsals, in Central London. Certainly I had been intrigued by the new, as yet unknown direction which my life would take in this new city, yet my creative outlets were limited to writing, and my exploration to the very short cul-de-sac we lived on. I loved the number of resident magpies in Drumcondra, and miss the haphazard method of crossing roads. I never made it to the Taekwondo school in the city centre. Nor did I ever return to O’Donohue’s to play. I know that Dublin is not somewhere I would immediately choose to live – I need multiculturalism, as opposed to a very strong national culture – but when a musician friend, Madge, offered to go to Dublin to collect my poor parrot, clothes and books, I was excited by the idea of going with her and showing her around. Above all, I’m intensely grateful for the few weeks I had in Dublin for the lessons it taught me and how it’s shaped my life as a result.
I can’t not mention my home. I’ve gone from being intensely grateful for being there every evening when I draw the curtains and switch on the lamps, having spent much of the day tidying and scrubbing, to looking for ways of mending and improving: hanging pictures, sorting out the kitchen cupboards and drawers, bequeathing covers to my coverless duvets, repainting, finishing the curtains, which have been held up by needles for the last two years, making two more dance skirts, and all the other little touches needed to transform this flat from a slightly neglected to a completely appreciated one. That requires more energy and time than I have at present, but when I’m asked about relocation I don’t even have to pause before refusing.
Finally: I had my vindication. I spoke to an IT recruitment agent last week, who told me that the best thing I could have done was to leave IBM so hastily, that a few weeks on my CV was far better than several drawn-out months. Nobody had told me when I accepted the job what a negative reputation they have within the industry, that they are renowned for poor training and treatment of staff. I think I was having a bad day at the time, but glowed till I went to sleep.
Posted by chantal at 03:24 PM | TrackBack
November 10, 2002
Rat Race Meets Bedlam
Two things distinguish my new job: Tracey, and the lack of funding.
I plan to write a separate piece on Tracey, but she is indistinguishable from the Hackney Legal Services experience. I share an office with her, only a short partition protects me from her, and most of the lawyers who come into our office shoot me a conspiratorial wink or grin depending on her mood.
I did not find out until my third day that the London Borough of Hackney had gone bankrupt two years ago, and that its financial situation had not improved noticeably since. Although a few of the lawyers have been working there since prior to the bankruptcy, I haven’t yet asked them many, if any questions about their experiences and impressions. Sylvie tells me about Hackney going into receivership, and rubbish lying uncollected for a long time. Nobody can remember the exact figures, but two years ago, according to the BBC’s website, Hackney was £50 million in debt. After selling a building valued at £47 million, Hackney was only £21 million in debt six months later.
Ironically for me, the company involved in Hackney’s financial disaster is IT Net. When I was working at Westminster Social Services, between IT Net (payroll) and Capita (HR), very few Westminster employees were paid regularly, or without hassle. As I was paid weekly, this meant that I had to spend most of each week arguing on the phone to both Capita and IT Net, still not being guaranteed payment at the end of the week. IT Net were in charge of Hackney’s benefits payments, and, true to form, did not handle them very well. Hackney were held responsible for the repayment of lost benefits, which were by that point running into six or seven figures. Also responsible were building projects running vastly over budget. Hackney closed down most of its leisure centres to focus on the refurbishment of one, which happened to run £20 million over budget. I work behind Hackney Town Hall, and the most exercise there is to be had is running across the main road to catch a bus.
At Westminster, the smokers talked about how Westminster was the richest borough, and therefore had the best facilities. As I was working in one of the support departments, all I could see was a depressing building with minimal facilities and perks for staff. I can appreciate now the funding that was invested in refurbishing the building, despite the fact that we had to endure months of heavy drilling and migraines, and the awareness that every Health and Saftety regulation was being breached. We couldn’t answer phones because, well, even if we could hear the phone ring, we wouldn’t be able to hear the person on the other end of it. Our department might arrange up to nine meetings a day, but we would not be able to guarantee any of the participants being able to be heard.
So now I am in Hackney. I have heard several variations on my job title; I prefer Legal Support Officer. There are two of us; the lawyers are called Legal Advisors. The former barrister is now the Senior Legal Adviser.
What do I actually do? According to my agency, I am an Audio Secretary (I hate audio work). Certainly, there is a lot of audio typing to be done, although given Tracey’s tendency to ‘lose’ tapes, a number of the lawyers have since chosen to do their own typing. Personally, I see myself as the calm, friendly, helpful and polite support person: the one who is willing to smile and help the lawyers out when needed, or have a friendly chat at other times. Today we had a minor crisis as nobody could recall the Duty Rota; I sent one out entitled ‘confusion solution’. In fact, I’ve noticed a lot of glaring holes today in the overall administration, never mind the fact that these buy me more time off tapes.
Our department has moved every year for each of the five years that Tracey has worked there. We are currently in a condemned building which has the feel of a portakabin. Unless people have explicit instructions or have visited us previously, they will not be able to find us, let alone guess which is our building. From the outside, there is a gate leading into a depressed garden, behind which we lurk. Our office contains the printer, photocopier and two fax machines, none of which actually work, or at least reliably. Given the amount of audio typing we are expected to do, I am still confused about the logic of this. We have eight lawyers on the premises, which amounts to a huge amount of printing, photocopying and faxing, which is somewhat complicated by the photocopier jamming, the printer not printing on the letterhead or plain paper which you specified, and the fax machines only being able to retain maybe ten pages at a time, although happy to swallow the remainder if offered. Interim Care Orders need to be faxed over by 4 pm. We didn’t actually receive the necessary paperwork until well after 4 pm today and yesterday because both fax machines were too busy faxing out. As for adding ours to the queue? I am hoping that when both outgoing and incoming faxes are busy, deadlines become immaterial. At 4.30, one of the Courts phoned to say I’d been faxing the wrong number. Oops.
Despite trying to no longer be a hopeless idealist, I still fantasise about being able to hire a full-time faxer, or replace all equipment. Or upgrade the computers and reinstall all software. Tracey’s audio machine has probably been smashed to pieces by now – at least that’s how it sounds from my side of the partition – and the microwave scares me. I’ve used it once, and hid in the corridor in case it decided to explode. It makes a loud clanging noise when used, and I have never known a microwave to heat so rapidly. The only thing that works, and perhaps too well, is the heating: for once I can be secure in basking in tropical-level heat.
I’m grateful to be working in the legal division of Social Services, having worked in Social Services a year ago. It was frustrating to be working on a high number of child abuse cases which actually involved hyperactive or unruly children, or parents with dubious pasts. Parents whose children were injured when their backs were turned for an instant. A mother who accidentally stepped backwards onto her young son’s penis. Instead, we only deal with the cases which are deemed sufficiently serious for our attention, although that results in losing out on the specific details and contact with the parents.
One of my best friends at high school chose to study law because she was fascinated by the language of law. I’ve been typing it for six days now, and I’m horrified. I’ve often prided myself on having better English and grammar than the people I work for, but I have never really appreciated that until now. I saw a social worker’s report a few days ago which was written in a childish style; I was so horrified I showed it to a few people. Tracey laughed at the foreign-sounding names; another person criticised the bad spelling. Horrendous sentence structure is apparently not a crime. I type out some sentences which appear to be pure gibberish, yet they are signed off and duly faxed over. I am aware that law employs an antiquated form of English, and a very distinctive grammar structure, however it is perhaps too unnatural for some people to be able to use fluently and confidently.
An unexpected aspect of this job is the confrontation with The Job For Life. How Tracey has managed to hold onto her job is completely beyond me. Apparently she has been warned several times but these have had no impact. Where do I start? I can start with the obvious: she has (at least?) four double vodkas in her lunch break, and wafts of cigarette smoke and alcohol odour trail behind her as she returns to the office. I’ve heard jokes about passive drinking. Before she goes to the pub… she’s actually at her best. She complains bitterly about everything, especially her job and how much she has to do, none of which she actually carries out. When she is feeling calm, she narrates everything she does, swearing marginally less than at other times. Most of the time, particularly afternoons, she spends her time shouting, swearing, trying to destroy machinery and being rude to all who come into contact with her. Someone commented that for the first time, she actually appeared to be working this morning. Usually, when I am working on a tape, I crank the volume up to drown her out, and end up with a headache anyway.
Today, all I could hear was ‘tap tap THUNK tap THUNK tap CLUNK SMASH’ and so on. On Monday, she went on an extended lunchbreak, and completely lost it when she found the stationery boxes opened and looted. We named it the Stationery War. I sat at my desk, shaking my head and thinking, ‘it’s only stationery!!’ and yet she raged about the delivery slips having been moved, having to count the contents, how dare the lawyers not wait for her return etc etc. She is apparently notorious for this behaviour, and has reduced lawyers to tears and chased away innumerable temps. Our current boss leaves in a week, and so shows no interest in disciplining Tracey. I hope that her replacement is more proactive, yet worry for Tracey’s prospects, secure in a job where she can terrorise employees and while away the few hours between pub visits, and accomplish nothing in all her ranting, at least workwise. I really don’t know how she would be able to find work elsewhere.
Nevertheless, Hackney is a surprisingly healthy place to work. Since my exposure to Tracey, I have cut down my drinking significantly. Also my smoking: as Tracey is a heavy smoker, and she herself inspires me to smoke, it is surprisingly hard to find opportunities to smoke alone without her and the others coming outside to join me. Until now, I have always bonded with the smokers, making few friendships with non-smokers. Now, I adamantly avoid the smokers and am pleased with the time I spend with the non-smokers. I have an ever-growing stash of herbal teas on my desk, all with a Tracey-oriented theme: green tea, chamomile tea, breathe deep tea, detox tea. Once I get paid I’ll buy more.
Ultimately, I’m fascinated by how I have ended up with someone like Tracey in my face eight hours a day. Given how much I disliked IBM, I’m trying to look for a long-term satisfying job. Tracey is a model of someone who hates her job and whose life has degenerated into a mess. It’s too easy to fall into a job you hate and find yourself stuck there; Tracey reminds me to remain alert. She’s an intensive course in anger management, also in compassion, although that’s harder to come by. She’s a fascinating case study in herself, but for the most part, I can’t be bothered.