Mothers Day and moody days
It’s been very quiet out on the streets today. Looks like the general dyslexic do actually give a damn about someone apart from their own selfishness after all. Or is it just guilt? I’m feeling pretty cynical today after an unnecessary disagreement this morning with lower management. The insolent puppy.
I maintain I did nothing wrong. In fact I was going by the book. Ready for patrol bang on 8 o’clock as required and on my way out the door when one of our three shift supervisors buttonholes me and asks me to wait. “Okay, what do you need me for?” I asked.
“Never you mind – just do what I tell you!” Shift supervisor retorts snappily.
“Fine, tell me what it is and I’ll get on and do it.” Said I, trying to show willing and wondering what the hell had rattled his cage.
“Don’t you give me any trouble!” Shift supervisor snaps. Now there’s an idea, I thought. If I thought I could get away with it. “What?” I said instead. “I just asked you what you wanted doing, you got a problem with me you take it up with Kerry on Monday.” The guy is an idiot; Christ alone knows why they made him a shift supervisor. He makes Neanderthals look highly evolved and has all the interpersonal skills of a incontinent Stoat with rabies. “Now if you’ll excuse me – I’ve got a job to do. You want to make an issue of it, I’ll be talking to the Union.” At this point I leave. Nice as it might be to send him searching the floor for his teeth – losing my job over someone’s crabby mood was not on today’s agenda.
Fortunately, Pete our shop steward is on my shift so I met up with him and outlined the situation, just to cover my own back. Early afternoon my mobile rings and I’m called to the office, where Kerry is sitting, looking mightily pissed off at being called out on a Sunday. Ah, Shift Supervisor has gone running to mummy. Little tit. At least he’s nowhere to be seen.
“What’s all this about you disobeying a direct order Bill?” She demands.
“What order?” I’m not going to let her give me a written warning without a fight.
“You were told to wait this morning, but you just stormed out.”
“I did no such thing.”
“That’s not what I’ve been told.”
“Er, no. I got told very snottily to wait, when I asked why, and why I was being kept from patrol duties there wasn’t a proper answer so I got on with the job I’m paid to do. If our bozo of a shift supervisor had told me what he wanted doing instead of snapping at me like some hormonal teenage drama queen, I’d have done it.”
“I see.” Says Kerry, looking like she’d just sucked a particularly sour Lemon.
“If he wants to make an issue of it, I’ve had a quiet word with the union Rep. He thinks our shift supervisor couldn’t manage his way out of a wet paper bag.”
“Okay Bill.” This obviously conflicts with the version she’s been handed, but I know from experience she agrees with the wet paper bag. “We’ll talk about this on Monday.” Oops, this sounds ominous.
I talk to Pete on afternoon tea break. “Don’t worry about it Bill. I’ve had a word with Kerry and you’re not getting a disciplinary.” He said.
“What’s happening?” I’m still a little concerned, with my protagonist still in a position of authority over me.
“He’s gone off sick.” Pete grins. Shift supervisor is not the sharpest tool in the box and we all know it. “Stress.”
“What stress?” I respond. “He rides round in the van all day fixing ticket machines and smoking dodgy looking roll ups. Last time he was out on the streets they were booking flaming chariots.”
“Don’t ask me. Let’s just get through today.” Says Pete.
“Amen to that. Roll on Tuesday.” I know I’m in for a grilling by HR on Monday over this. What the hell, it’s only a job.
On my way home I drop off Mothers Day flowers and box of choccies.
“Had a nice day Bill?”
“Fine Mum – you?”
“Oh, mustn’t complain.”
“If you do, nobody listens.” We share a chuckle. It’s an old joke – been in our family for generations. More of an heirloom really.
“How’s the job?”
“Not too bad. I survive.”
“Always said you’d end up walking the streets.”
“Thankyou Mum.”
“Pleasure son. Now pour me a large Sherry.”
Families – don’t you just love ‘em?
I maintain I did nothing wrong. In fact I was going by the book. Ready for patrol bang on 8 o’clock as required and on my way out the door when one of our three shift supervisors buttonholes me and asks me to wait. “Okay, what do you need me for?” I asked.
“Never you mind – just do what I tell you!” Shift supervisor retorts snappily.
“Fine, tell me what it is and I’ll get on and do it.” Said I, trying to show willing and wondering what the hell had rattled his cage.
“Don’t you give me any trouble!” Shift supervisor snaps. Now there’s an idea, I thought. If I thought I could get away with it. “What?” I said instead. “I just asked you what you wanted doing, you got a problem with me you take it up with Kerry on Monday.” The guy is an idiot; Christ alone knows why they made him a shift supervisor. He makes Neanderthals look highly evolved and has all the interpersonal skills of a incontinent Stoat with rabies. “Now if you’ll excuse me – I’ve got a job to do. You want to make an issue of it, I’ll be talking to the Union.” At this point I leave. Nice as it might be to send him searching the floor for his teeth – losing my job over someone’s crabby mood was not on today’s agenda.
Fortunately, Pete our shop steward is on my shift so I met up with him and outlined the situation, just to cover my own back. Early afternoon my mobile rings and I’m called to the office, where Kerry is sitting, looking mightily pissed off at being called out on a Sunday. Ah, Shift Supervisor has gone running to mummy. Little tit. At least he’s nowhere to be seen.
“What’s all this about you disobeying a direct order Bill?” She demands.
“What order?” I’m not going to let her give me a written warning without a fight.
“You were told to wait this morning, but you just stormed out.”
“I did no such thing.”
“That’s not what I’ve been told.”
“Er, no. I got told very snottily to wait, when I asked why, and why I was being kept from patrol duties there wasn’t a proper answer so I got on with the job I’m paid to do. If our bozo of a shift supervisor had told me what he wanted doing instead of snapping at me like some hormonal teenage drama queen, I’d have done it.”
“I see.” Says Kerry, looking like she’d just sucked a particularly sour Lemon.
“If he wants to make an issue of it, I’ve had a quiet word with the union Rep. He thinks our shift supervisor couldn’t manage his way out of a wet paper bag.”
“Okay Bill.” This obviously conflicts with the version she’s been handed, but I know from experience she agrees with the wet paper bag. “We’ll talk about this on Monday.” Oops, this sounds ominous.
I talk to Pete on afternoon tea break. “Don’t worry about it Bill. I’ve had a word with Kerry and you’re not getting a disciplinary.” He said.
“What’s happening?” I’m still a little concerned, with my protagonist still in a position of authority over me.
“He’s gone off sick.” Pete grins. Shift supervisor is not the sharpest tool in the box and we all know it. “Stress.”
“What stress?” I respond. “He rides round in the van all day fixing ticket machines and smoking dodgy looking roll ups. Last time he was out on the streets they were booking flaming chariots.”
“Don’t ask me. Let’s just get through today.” Says Pete.
“Amen to that. Roll on Tuesday.” I know I’m in for a grilling by HR on Monday over this. What the hell, it’s only a job.
On my way home I drop off Mothers Day flowers and box of choccies.
“Had a nice day Bill?”
“Fine Mum – you?”
“Oh, mustn’t complain.”
“If you do, nobody listens.” We share a chuckle. It’s an old joke – been in our family for generations. More of an heirloom really.
“How’s the job?”
“Not too bad. I survive.”
“Always said you’d end up walking the streets.”
“Thankyou Mum.”
“Pleasure son. Now pour me a large Sherry.”
Families – don’t you just love ‘em?
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