Walking out of work this evening was like being released from prison for a few hours. Today was a hellish day in a fortnight of hellish days.
Here’s the craic: I work as a manager in Belfast. For the past 5-6 years, I’ve had a full-time assistant helping me run IT in a fairly large, often demanding office. My most recent prodigy handed in his notice just before Christmas – a bad time for seeking out replacement staff.
Regardless of the bad timing, we set out to recruit a replacement pretty sharpish. The market was piss-poor and full of graduate CVs with career shopping lists. “Oh, yes, I’m currently studying for my MCSE, CCNA, Cisco, PhD” Of course, they’re hoping you’ll bankroll the expensive training part of this before they move on to pastures new. Sceptical, Levee? You bet.
Things Get Bad
So, my car is in for servicing on Monday a couple of weeks ago. I decide (as a big important manager) to work from home on this day – after all, I have remote access. So, I arrange for my assistant to come in a bit earlier to cover my hours.
To cut a long story short, my superior went bonkers about not being notified in advance. Bizarre. I’ve done this before and it’s never been a problem. In fact, I can work better without interruptions. But on this day I receive one very nasty email.
So nasty, in fact, that I almost flamed back. But Mrs L pinned me down and sedated me before I had a chance to speak my mind. I don’t know what those injections were, but they worked….
On the Friday, I met with said superior and talked this issue out. Mentioned how offended I’d been. Not just about that, but about a number of things including a salary raise request that was blatantly ignored by the firm last year. Left the meeting and felt relieved that I’d gotten my grievances off my chest. And the boss seemed to acknowledge most of my points and seemed determined to address a number of the issues I raised.
Things Get Worse. Much Worse
The weekend passed, and I trotted into work on Monday morning looking forward to meeting a potential candidate for the assistant’s job. We had the meeting, were impressed with the person we saw, little birds twittered on the office windowsills, and all seemed well. Until after lunchtime.
My boss came into my office to see me straight after lunch with a bombshell – we’ve decided not to hire a replacement, says she. As if this wasn’t going to turn my working life upside down! Do the work of two people? WTF? Think of all the money we’ll save – that’s a substantial saving to the company. Oh yeah? Will I be getting my cut in luncheon vouchers, while my hair is falling out with stress?
The more this sank in, the more traumatised I became, the more questions this raised. I stewed over it all night. So did Mrs L. A revelation like this raises so much uncertainty, not just at work, but for the family life too.
I didn’t realise just how much this was affecting me until I got up the next morning. My jaw was killing me. I knew straight away that I’d been grinding my teeth in my sleep. The good wife confirmed this later on with a phone call. Every morning since, I’ve woken up with a throbbing jaw any pro-boxer would be proud of.
What Next?
Well, as you can see, the stress of this job has been having a wearing effect on me for the last few years. I feel like I’ve aged prematurely! Seriously though, the stress of this situation has actually hit me quite hard and I’m (even now) flittering between bouts of uncontrollable rage at this decision and helplessness and just plain upset.
Anyway, folks, there’s no sense complaining. When you’re stuck in this sort of mire, there’s only one way out, and that’s to move on. I’m not going to stay and fight – there are better opportunities out there and given that the New Year has just begun, maybe it’s time for a good ol’ fresh start. We’ll see.
For now, though, it’s back to the prison tomorrow. Good thing the JobFinder’s out on Fridays! If you’ve made it this far, thanks for listening!
Parnell 10:25 pm on October 20, 2006 Permalink
Mr. Levee!! As long as you are aware the object of Vasectomy is to render you
permanently sterile. Decommissioning the male seed projectile organ projectile organ? is one small step for a man but one which will allow many years of bliss.
Anyway, firing blanks should prove as much fun. If you are atrue Irishman – To be sure – to be sure, Have both.
beano 3:09 am on October 21, 2006 Permalink
Geez man, I hate the thought of operations at the best of times but if someone’s going to be messing about with sharp objects around my private parts, I sure as hell don’t wanna see it!!
Mr. Levee 7:43 pm on October 24, 2006 Permalink
Beano: I used to be squeamish at the thought of the snip, but after three children I can only say that I’m jubilant at the thought right now!
Think about it: no more rubber johnnies! That’s one of the biggest benefits!
Scooterdeb 8:40 pm on October 24, 2006 Permalink
That third child is always a surprise. I don’t know ANYone with three kids who hasn’t had the same “Holy. Crap.” moment when they found out the third was on his or her way.
Steven 6:16 pm on November 3, 2006 Permalink
I’m just not sure of the wisdom of proclaiming to the world for posterity that your 3rd child was an accident. What happens when the kid grows up and decides to read Mum and Dad’s blog?
Hope it goes well anyway