Friday, May 02, 2003
Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary
There are to be redundancies at work. The word arrived by E-mail from Mama Boss herself. About ten per cent of the workforce dumped due to the "uncertain economic climate"/ the war/ SARS/ some puppy-dog's sore paw/ anything to shift blame away from fat-cats.
Luckily, mine and the jobs of the others in my department are safe. It seems we're still needed by the Big Boys Upstairs who don't even know our names. And, in case you're wondering, that repetitive tapping sound you hear is me knocking very firmly on wood.
But would I really mind if I was given the Big Heave-Ho? The job's not so bad: the pay's fine, and, theoretically at least, I can hire and fire. And, while not exactly letting me get away with murder, it does, at least, occasionally allow me to indulge in some serious GBH.
Yet, it wasn't ever planned. It's just a little accidental something I slipped into a couple of years back, one of only two "proper" jobs I've ever had in my life. Forced redundancy might actually get me off my bum, in search of work more appropriate to my talents, as well as getting me some colleagues who think possession of a pink, fur-lined bathroom is the height of cool.
As I type, secretaries are stabbing themselves with their nail-files and leaping off high balconies; middle management is JD-ing itself into a stupor; and Fleet Street is swimming ankle-deep in corporate blood. And the Stranger is putting his hand up and saying: "Hey, can I be made redundant too?"
Did I ever mention I can be a contrary little Mary when I want to be?