The Red Mist

It was a lovely November day. The air was crisp. The sun was shining. It’s my favourite kind of weather, in spite of the short days. Christmas is a month away. Just think, in a mere 30 days’ time, we will all be sitting back thinking, just what the hell was all that about?

Why am I not happy today though?

It’s this place. The poxy Department. Things are getting right on my raving titties today. The red mist is descending once more. Everything’s gone mad fucking busy again. Except this time, it’s completely new stuff. New to me, that is. The bosses have done it before but are now sick of it, so have dumped it on me. With fuck all instructions on how to go about it.

Typical fucking civil service.

It’s a kind of project management role that involves gathering input from various other people, who I don’t work directly with. Tracking them down has been fun (!) so far, especially since none of them ever returned my calls or emails, and for those in the same building as me, I don’t know what they look like so I can’t pounce on them in the corridors.

In the case of those that I have been able to talk to, I have pissed them off on a grand scale with my work. Apparently everything is wrong. I have created changes that certain people can’t cope with and they want everything back the way it was. A sweary rant in my bosses’ ears imploring them to intercede on my behalf has worked, at least to some extent. Boss no. 1 has, so far, ignored my complaints. Boss no. 2 has made an effort to reconcile the differences, to reach a compromise and has offered help with the remainder of the job. There wouldn’t have been this much aggro if I’d received help in the first instance. But still, at least one of my managers realises the error of their ways. Good.

Then, as if I haven’t enough to do, some bollox in a neighbouring section dumps me in it. Picture the scene.

Guy-who-stands-too-close-to-people has a problem with his computer. He asks a colleague, Bollox. Bollox glances at the clock and says, “Ask Govstooge. Govstooge is good with computers.”

Bollox quickly shrugs himself into his coat and bounds merrily down the corridor to the canteen. Guy-who-stands-too-close-to-people is now standing too close to me, describing his problem. As his personal hygiene is good (i.e. no stale cabbage odour), I go to help a colleague in need, instead of tearing down the corridor and giving Bollox a good running kick up the arse, as is my immediate gut reaction. I hope the tea was cold.

And to cap it all, the top bastards in FAS are giving the rest of us a bad name! Pay per view films, golf trips and eyebrow tints, all on the taxpayer. Fucking disgrace. If there’s going to be a hatchet, chop them. Bastards.

I have days where I want to sing and dance down the corridors of the Department, giving thanks for a secure job and generally decent people to work with. Today wasn't one of them.

Molotov cocktail anyone??