Monday, September 25, 2006
mydaysasawageslave.com
mydaysasawageslave.com
I am trying to be a better and more productive wageslave believe me i am.
But try as hard as i like, it's just not working. I can't drum up the enthusiasm for the job. Maybe it's the particular job but I fear it's work in general.
My boss (Number 1) took me and a couple of other design droids out for lunch on Friday. A kind of "checking in with the troops" (his comment and his inverted commas!) and a... "bit of morale boosting."
So I thought I'd be reasonable, give him a chance, take the free drink and food and see how it goes.
It was fuckin' awful! No two ways about it.
Every single facet of conversation of Number 1 led conversation is designed to push his social status.
He goes to Spain on holidays. Not that he would normally, but his wife's family, who are very wealthy, have an apartment there.
He occasionally goes "over to the west somewhere... (Mayo) to stay at a farmhouse B&B. The farmer and his wife, whilst being mad are surprisingly intelligent. Quite cultured and versed in the ways of the world. You could have a conversation with them!" Even I am a bit shocked that he seemed shocked at this.
Ned, our resident 'westie' laughs at this kind of thing in the way the gombeen Oirish characters in the Irish RM used to laugh at Peter Bowles.
A self confessed D4 (that's Dublin 4 an 'elite' Dublin postal code to the unitiated) Boy, he only goes to this one place outside his postal district on the recommendation of a builder friend of his.
He leaves that to hang in the air for a second before continuing... "He's not. like, a normal builder, he's very wealthy. Builds houses. Worth a fortune".
"Of course' I sigh.
As we prepare to leave he stops only to make the waitress squirm a bit more, asking her how much of a tip she felt she was worth.
I walked ahead of the others back toward the office. Over my shoulder, I can hear Number is on a role... "I've never been poor, have you? I mean I've never had to do without anything. Even when I was at university. I lived at home. I had a job. Money, a car. What's it like?" he asks pointedly of his remaining design droids.
The traffic drowns out any hope of a response and I put a bit of distance between myself and them. I pass the ambient black guy with a sandwich board on the bridge who is becoming more ambient and un-noticed everyday. In my head I'm singing 'The Port of Amsterdam', the Bowie version.
"there's a sailor who dies, full of beer, full of cries..."
I'm the first back into expensively designed cube farm that is work, when I see someone frantically scurrying about up at the back of the office. It's a familiar shape so I go a bit closer.
"Carol? is that you. You Ok?" Carol is the pregnant girl they bumped off a couple of weeks back.
She looked up at me looking totally stressed and confused before blurting out a sharp "No." Her eyes welling up before breaking into tears. Sobbing!
Jesus! I didn't know what to do.
"I can't believe they just just got rid of me like that... I just came in to collect my stuff. It's taken me a couple of weeks to be able to come back... and then they have some one else at my desk.
They told me they it was nothing to do with my pregnancy. They couldn't afford the position. But they've got someone else doing my job. Already! How long has she been here?"
"Er, a day or two after you left... maybe."
"Bastards!" she wailed.
"Yeah I know, they were really shit, the way they treated you. Look I'm really sorry about all that." I fumbled... "It was nothing to do with me. Or most of the people here really. Everyone was freaked out over it... they're just real fuckers.
You're better off out of it. You don't need to be around people like that."
"It's just that I thought Igor was a friend. I'd worked with him for years. He's been in my house for dinner! I invited him to my wedding! and then he does this... Wanker!"
At this stage a couple of the female wageslaves had come back from lunch. They rushed up to console the now distraught Carol with a hugs and sympathy. I was glad to be relieved. Truth was, that for the first time in my working wagelsave life, I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. Ashamed that i had to stand and watch a grown woman cry over mistreatment. And ashamed that there was nothing I could do other than offer my sympathy.
The girls ushered her out before Number 1, Igor or any of the middle management drones made it back into the office.
I was back at my cubicle staring blankly at the screen for the rest of the afternoon. I had a print out stuck on my partition with the lyrics of the intro monologue from radiohead's OK computer... fitter, happier, more productive... a pig in a cage on antibiotics as Bowie played out my day in the port of Amsterdam.
"...Yeah, they've bargained their virtue
Their goodness all gone
For a few dirty coins
Well he just can't go on..."
indeed.
I am trying to be a better and more productive wageslave believe me i am.
But try as hard as i like, it's just not working. I can't drum up the enthusiasm for the job. Maybe it's the particular job but I fear it's work in general.
My boss (Number 1) took me and a couple of other design droids out for lunch on Friday. A kind of "checking in with the troops" (his comment and his inverted commas!) and a... "bit of morale boosting."
So I thought I'd be reasonable, give him a chance, take the free drink and food and see how it goes.
It was fuckin' awful! No two ways about it.
Every single facet of conversation of Number 1 led conversation is designed to push his social status.
He goes to Spain on holidays. Not that he would normally, but his wife's family, who are very wealthy, have an apartment there.
He occasionally goes "over to the west somewhere... (Mayo) to stay at a farmhouse B&B. The farmer and his wife, whilst being mad are surprisingly intelligent. Quite cultured and versed in the ways of the world. You could have a conversation with them!" Even I am a bit shocked that he seemed shocked at this.
Ned, our resident 'westie' laughs at this kind of thing in the way the gombeen Oirish characters in the Irish RM used to laugh at Peter Bowles.
A self confessed D4 (that's Dublin 4 an 'elite' Dublin postal code to the unitiated) Boy, he only goes to this one place outside his postal district on the recommendation of a builder friend of his.
He leaves that to hang in the air for a second before continuing... "He's not. like, a normal builder, he's very wealthy. Builds houses. Worth a fortune".
"Of course' I sigh.
As we prepare to leave he stops only to make the waitress squirm a bit more, asking her how much of a tip she felt she was worth.
I walked ahead of the others back toward the office. Over my shoulder, I can hear Number is on a role... "I've never been poor, have you? I mean I've never had to do without anything. Even when I was at university. I lived at home. I had a job. Money, a car. What's it like?" he asks pointedly of his remaining design droids.
The traffic drowns out any hope of a response and I put a bit of distance between myself and them. I pass the ambient black guy with a sandwich board on the bridge who is becoming more ambient and un-noticed everyday. In my head I'm singing 'The Port of Amsterdam', the Bowie version.
"there's a sailor who dies, full of beer, full of cries..."
I'm the first back into expensively designed cube farm that is work, when I see someone frantically scurrying about up at the back of the office. It's a familiar shape so I go a bit closer.
"Carol? is that you. You Ok?" Carol is the pregnant girl they bumped off a couple of weeks back.
She looked up at me looking totally stressed and confused before blurting out a sharp "No." Her eyes welling up before breaking into tears. Sobbing!
Jesus! I didn't know what to do.
"I can't believe they just just got rid of me like that... I just came in to collect my stuff. It's taken me a couple of weeks to be able to come back... and then they have some one else at my desk.
They told me they it was nothing to do with my pregnancy. They couldn't afford the position. But they've got someone else doing my job. Already! How long has she been here?"
"Er, a day or two after you left... maybe."
"Bastards!" she wailed.
"Yeah I know, they were really shit, the way they treated you. Look I'm really sorry about all that." I fumbled... "It was nothing to do with me. Or most of the people here really. Everyone was freaked out over it... they're just real fuckers.
You're better off out of it. You don't need to be around people like that."
"It's just that I thought Igor was a friend. I'd worked with him for years. He's been in my house for dinner! I invited him to my wedding! and then he does this... Wanker!"
At this stage a couple of the female wageslaves had come back from lunch. They rushed up to console the now distraught Carol with a hugs and sympathy. I was glad to be relieved. Truth was, that for the first time in my working wagelsave life, I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. Ashamed that i had to stand and watch a grown woman cry over mistreatment. And ashamed that there was nothing I could do other than offer my sympathy.
The girls ushered her out before Number 1, Igor or any of the middle management drones made it back into the office.
I was back at my cubicle staring blankly at the screen for the rest of the afternoon. I had a print out stuck on my partition with the lyrics of the intro monologue from radiohead's OK computer... fitter, happier, more productive... a pig in a cage on antibiotics as Bowie played out my day in the port of Amsterdam.
"...Yeah, they've bargained their virtue
Their goodness all gone
For a few dirty coins
Well he just can't go on..."
indeed.
