Work is a funny old place. You’re either on the inside track or picking up trash outside as I discovered after deciding to leave and start working out my notice.

First, I was asked to move desk and then excommunicated to another floor. No meetings, no phone calls, no mail. Absolute zip.

I seem to have slipped through the cracks and now have two months to work out my notice doing whatever I fancy as no-one seems to care.

 

The portals of Hell finally creaked open this week with confirmation that half of our workforce will be sacked in January as part of health minister Andrew Lansley’s vision of a new slimline National Health Service.  The zeal with which our impeding demise is being brought about hasn’t been matched since the sacking of Jerusalem and our glorious leader even managed to lace the bad news with a few jokes.

He reasoned that it was far better to know where we all stood with the minimum of ‘fuss’. And what cheerier way to do so than letting the condemned know by Christmas that we’d be starting 2011 on the dole. I could see a few disgruntled staff weighing up whether or not to throttle him as he appealed for us to remain professional while being cast to the wolves.

 

The collective pallor of our workplace has taken on battleship grey as the first round of job cuts trundles over the horizon with its cleavers banging around in the back of the truck.

There is a listless air about the place like a ship caught in dead calm.

Biscuit consumption has risen, tempers are paper thin and there is some irritating person whose emigrating to Oz next week and delights in telling us how sorry she feels for us all.

Yup and I’ll be feeling sorry for her when that funnel-web spider bites her on the arse unless the box jellyfish or salt water crocodile gets in there first.

 

The auspices of the recession are used to bring into play all manner of thumb-screws on employees.

Slippery eel speak is the order of the day. People are being asked to do more for less and the unspoken word is that we’ll be collectively selling bootlaces on a street corner by Christmas.

In an effort to allay fears, our glorious leader is about to embark on a floor-by-floor ‘meet the riff-raff’ tour where he will reassure us that all is well upon the burning boat and we should stay at our posts.

We’re doomed when that barracuda in a suit decides to walk among the great unwashed.

© 2011 gruntfarter.co.uk Suffusion theme by Sayontan Sinha