Well, I've been in the public service for a little over a year now, and I'm happy to say they haven't crushed my spirit yet. Actually, let me emphasise yet. But there's still time. I won't be completely out of debt for a few more months (the student loan doesn't count), and so until then I can't retire and take up full-time writing. And it shits me.
Ah well. There really is a marked difference between this and other types of vocation I've enjoyed. Working in the out of doors wasn't too bad, except for the time a tantric masseuse tried to offer me payment in kind for two days of removing bamboo from her garden. BAMBOO. If you've never tried to dig over a dozen square metres of that crap by hand, you'll not know the effort required. She looked both shocked and insulted when I told her to pony up with the cash. On the other hand, I did the gardens for an artist in Grey Lynn who was one of the most genuinely lovely women I've ever met.
Phone rooms? Not so bad. Except for the whole nothing-but-artificial-light trip. And the punters yelling down the phone. And the highly caffeinated instant coffee. And the huge arses. So, so many huge arses. Those places are like BMI accrual enforcement sites. Oh, and the smokers. “Why do you smoke?”, “Because it stops me munching at work”, “Love, it ain't working”.
I think what I used to enjoy most about the kitchen was that you got to combine what was essentially an outdoor mindset with hard work and a no-nonsense attitude. This means that the fights were generally stand-up and honest. The chain of command was clear, and your obligations and responsibilities at work were obvious. I've been contracting in three separate government departments, and permanent in one. The application of these things is patchy at best.
Take for example a chef I worked with in Melbourne. He used to burn me, and I think it was inadvertent. Generally in a kitchen you know that anything metal has to be treated as if it was red hot. Even if you've just taken it out of the freezer, at least pretend to think it's hot. But sometimes when you're in a hell of a hurry you just grab things to keep the flow going.
What this chef would do is drop white-hot pans into my sink (which usually contained no water) when I was out of the room (I used to have to dash to the coolroom to collect things for them). I'd get back to my sink, grab the pan without thinking, and burn myself. When this happens at the start of a shift and you're having to work for another 6 hours, it can be a real problem.
The correct response in this situation is not to write a letter, a report, or speak to a manager. You speak to the person involved, and directly. “[Chef]” you say, “can you be careful about where you leave these?” If the problem escalates because the other person doesn't reciprocate, the urgency of your request escalates. It eventually got to the point where I was forced to yell, very loudly, and in strong language, for him to not leave effing pans in my effing sink, and asked if he was effing stupid. That he paid attention to.
There are days when you just kind of want to totally lose it like that. It's good for the soul, given that the intention is to resolve issues.
Maybe my next office job can be in Italy or something.
On the better news front, I'm looking forward to the day when someone finally gets a decent chat forum running. The content at Farrar's site just makes me feel stupider even clicking on the comment function, and the crows who nest over at Just Left need either personality transplants or a social life, whichever comes first. Things are good and civil at No Right Turn mind you, maybe I should read him more often.
One site I do read that's been recently upgraded is the Wellingtonista. Go check it out. Go on, get in there.
And in the send-a-blogger-an-email file, make sure you check out THIS out if you're in Wellingtown this weekend. I used to go to a monthly reggae/dancehall gig in Melbourne. If these guys are even half as good as that, it is a fine, fine night out, and far, far from Babylon-in-a-suit.