I was detoxed, desensitised and demoralised then re programmed and re invented.
Eight years ago I went through a near death experience - redundancy at middle age.
In their infinite wisdom one of Australia's top twelve companies decided to outsource (dirty word) my job to an external facilities management company. This company, so they considered had its finger on the pulse of the new millennium.
Before they gave me the 'golden handshake' I was given the opportunity (apparently a legal requirement) to apply for my old job, now the recreated 'new job'. Applying came with several strings attached. I was still shell shocked when, close on the heels of the announcement came a two hour behavioural interview. The aim, to check if I would be suitable for the new/old role that I had been doing for the past two years. Beware the behavioural interview - it's designed to trip you up when you are right down. The 'corpse' is delivered at the thrown flat on the back stage, then allowed to sit up slowly, given enough encouragement to help it to walk and talk then finally allowed to run out the door. My career path over the past ten years was dissected leaving me just short of jumping off the cliff that was laid open at the end of it. Obviously I hadn't been reading the signals. There was no way that I would get my old/new job back. The decision had already been made well prior to the interview.
To console me I was offered a lesser position within the company and when I graciously refused and let them off the hook I was assigned to a re deployment officer.
I had to report twice weekly to this outside version of a prison parole officer for processing She always escorted me into an internal office with no windows. We played monopoly, card games, used lots of lovely coloured pens - just like a child at a restaurant who is given crayons to colour in a scene on the place mat. All in the name of trying to find out where my strengths, weakness's, skills and abilities may be hiding and ultimately what and where my next job should be.
She must have missed a vital clue - freelance writer didn't rate a mention.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Saturday, November 11, 2006
The Journey
We’ve been waiting weeks for this.
A warm, almost but not quite, cloud free Sydney day.
A reprieve before the sticky heat that heralds the oncoming of summer.
The 389-bus route passes through several areas that make up a very small segment of this sprawling, cosmopolitan city. It's a pretty route -
It starts at the sleepy seaside suburb of Bondi North and ends up at Circular Quay. It travels via a trendy new shopping centre, through a leafy suburb of gentlemen’s residences. then meanders its way through two kilometres of lovingly restored (at great expense) Victorian Terrace houses. It passes through a one street Italian quarter, then on to the throbbing heart of the city, the CBD.
My journey begins in the gentlemen’s suburb, sitting, praise be, in a covered bus stop. My silence is broken. “Is there a bus due soon?” asks a guy in his mid 50’s. He is casually dressed in a plain blue open neck shirt, indigo blue jeans and on his feet a pair of 'I do a lot of serious walking', shoes. I reply “there’ll be one within ten minutes” He’s off on another tangent, “I used to live around here thirty five years ago”. I did some quick arithmetic. Based on my mid 50’s assumption; he was 20 when he lived here. “There are a lot more trees around here now than there were then.” He considers this to be "a good thing" I consider it to be a not such a good thing as the trees are rapidly encroaching on my spectacular view back towards the CBD. He must have been on a trip down memory lane as he got off at St Vincents Hospital hospice “to visit an old friend”.
One stop prior to this, a red faced guy with a shirt to match, and a bottle that’s not a bottle when it’s wrapped in a plain brown wrapper, boards. He is obviously on his way to join a friend or two for lunch. We pass a small park sporting pigeons, prams and pushchairs then on to the stop at the National Art School to pick up a couple of funky 'grunge' mode students. A corner florist with a glorious window display of November lilies affords a sea of tranquillity and a visual respite from my people watching.
The pavement tables of the tiny pocket of Italiana named , Stanley Street, are very under populated for mid day on a Saturday. I resolve to stop off at Bill and Toni’s on my return journey for a shot of good strong Italian coffee. A Sydney institution, Bill and Toni's is renowned for it’s big bowls of ‘spag bol’ and its even bigger jugs of sickly Orange cordial that they plonk unceremoniously on the tables.
What are my fellow passengers wearing? There’s the beach gear from Bondi, the dateless suit that is heading for an afternoon at the Bridge Club and, because of the outdoor air temperature, lots of bare arms and legs. What are they carrying? - shopping from the flashy shopping centre, numerous variations on a theme of the handbag, and heaven forbid, a plastic wrapped packet of sushi. I fear for it’s shelf life and for the e-coli count when it reaches its eventual destination.
The air in the bus is close; opening the window provides no relief. The sound of silence ensues. It’s surprising what a rise in air temperature will do to the tongue. No one is talking; this is a journey of visual and aural observations only. The fountain in the park dances teasingly in the middle distance.
The CBD arrives unannounced. A long queue has formed on the pavement outside of ticketek, all eager for tickets to watch Kylie Minogue wiggle her bum or to hear the sounds of U2 or perhaps both. Fortunately for those in the queue, ticketek uptown is located next to the Hyde Park pub. No worries mate; Aussies don’t need an excuse to buy a beer.
It’s 11 November 2006 and the big department store, David Jones already has its windows bedecked with Christmas decorations and the inevitable snow and a Nativity Scene. Hasn’t anyone told them that it’s 32degrees celsius and that there are still 43 days to Christmas. It’s got to have something to do with the recent increase in interest rates. Guess they want their bite of the household budget before the next mortgage repayment is due. Make mental note, the post Christmas sales will be BIG this year.
A reality check, we have arrived at Circular Quay and the remaining three passengers are left to face the gathering of the masses. The moment has passed; my journey has come to an end.
My next journey begins with the hauntingly beautiful overture from Les Sylphides................
A warm, almost but not quite, cloud free Sydney day.
A reprieve before the sticky heat that heralds the oncoming of summer.
The 389-bus route passes through several areas that make up a very small segment of this sprawling, cosmopolitan city. It's a pretty route -
It starts at the sleepy seaside suburb of Bondi North and ends up at Circular Quay. It travels via a trendy new shopping centre, through a leafy suburb of gentlemen’s residences. then meanders its way through two kilometres of lovingly restored (at great expense) Victorian Terrace houses. It passes through a one street Italian quarter, then on to the throbbing heart of the city, the CBD.
My journey begins in the gentlemen’s suburb, sitting, praise be, in a covered bus stop. My silence is broken. “Is there a bus due soon?” asks a guy in his mid 50’s. He is casually dressed in a plain blue open neck shirt, indigo blue jeans and on his feet a pair of 'I do a lot of serious walking', shoes. I reply “there’ll be one within ten minutes” He’s off on another tangent, “I used to live around here thirty five years ago”. I did some quick arithmetic. Based on my mid 50’s assumption; he was 20 when he lived here. “There are a lot more trees around here now than there were then.” He considers this to be "a good thing" I consider it to be a not such a good thing as the trees are rapidly encroaching on my spectacular view back towards the CBD. He must have been on a trip down memory lane as he got off at St Vincents Hospital hospice “to visit an old friend”.
One stop prior to this, a red faced guy with a shirt to match, and a bottle that’s not a bottle when it’s wrapped in a plain brown wrapper, boards. He is obviously on his way to join a friend or two for lunch. We pass a small park sporting pigeons, prams and pushchairs then on to the stop at the National Art School to pick up a couple of funky 'grunge' mode students. A corner florist with a glorious window display of November lilies affords a sea of tranquillity and a visual respite from my people watching.
The pavement tables of the tiny pocket of Italiana named , Stanley Street, are very under populated for mid day on a Saturday. I resolve to stop off at Bill and Toni’s on my return journey for a shot of good strong Italian coffee. A Sydney institution, Bill and Toni's is renowned for it’s big bowls of ‘spag bol’ and its even bigger jugs of sickly Orange cordial that they plonk unceremoniously on the tables.
What are my fellow passengers wearing? There’s the beach gear from Bondi, the dateless suit that is heading for an afternoon at the Bridge Club and, because of the outdoor air temperature, lots of bare arms and legs. What are they carrying? - shopping from the flashy shopping centre, numerous variations on a theme of the handbag, and heaven forbid, a plastic wrapped packet of sushi. I fear for it’s shelf life and for the e-coli count when it reaches its eventual destination.
The air in the bus is close; opening the window provides no relief. The sound of silence ensues. It’s surprising what a rise in air temperature will do to the tongue. No one is talking; this is a journey of visual and aural observations only. The fountain in the park dances teasingly in the middle distance.
The CBD arrives unannounced. A long queue has formed on the pavement outside of ticketek, all eager for tickets to watch Kylie Minogue wiggle her bum or to hear the sounds of U2 or perhaps both. Fortunately for those in the queue, ticketek uptown is located next to the Hyde Park pub. No worries mate; Aussies don’t need an excuse to buy a beer.
It’s 11 November 2006 and the big department store, David Jones already has its windows bedecked with Christmas decorations and the inevitable snow and a Nativity Scene. Hasn’t anyone told them that it’s 32degrees celsius and that there are still 43 days to Christmas. It’s got to have something to do with the recent increase in interest rates. Guess they want their bite of the household budget before the next mortgage repayment is due. Make mental note, the post Christmas sales will be BIG this year.
A reality check, we have arrived at Circular Quay and the remaining three passengers are left to face the gathering of the masses. The moment has passed; my journey has come to an end.
My next journey begins with the hauntingly beautiful overture from Les Sylphides................
Monday, October 30, 2006
The Terror that is Technology
I’m on technology access overload. The only thing that consoles me is that I’m not going through this agony alone.
Its 6:50pm, the steak is marinating, the aubergines are under the grill. The phone rings (as it has a habit of doing at dinner time) I answer it - a one second silence, then a voice, not unlike the sound an echo being sucked up by a vacuum cleaner, responds. “How are you today?". I reply (in a state of high irritation) “I really don’t think that should be any concern of yours.” Not put off by this affront the voice continues, assuring me that he is “just checking that you have everything you need from your telephone, internet and mobile provider.” I reply that “yes I do” hastily adding “thank you”, in the hopes that this simply courtesy will get me off the hook. No such luck, the voice continues “I can guarantee to make you even more content by offering you a price cut, discounts, and numerous other bells and whistles.”
I less than politely take my leave and head for the kitchen. Not to be, I’m stopped mid stride by a buzz on the intercom. It’s the Foxtel guy wanting to regale me with the reasons why I should go the digital way. He engages scare tactics – "if you don’t go digital you'll loose access to the history channel". Now he’s got my attention. This is just not possible as I have no desire to miss out on my escape to those periods in human evolution that were untouched by technology. Consider it a done deal..I sign up.
Dinner is a disaster, over marinated steak that tastes more like venison than beef and incinerated aubergines. I have no choice but to revert to using the microwave to heat up frozen leftovers.
Two down - bad luck comes in three's. It's not over yet. A final check of my emails for the day delivers a dose of technology over- kill. The Christmas flight to the US has had a schedule change. The bank hasn’t paid the Visa account because apparently I didn’t pick up my confirmation pin number, which comes to me, courtesy of a text message on my mobile. There's confirmation of my registration for E-tag – I can now use the cross city tunnel to go to the Organic Market at Orange Grove School. The last piece de resistance is from a real estate agent letting me know that he has found me the perfect apartment. Joy oh joy, it has a much sought after media alcove.
Time to restore my equilibrium and my sanity. I run a bubble bath, light a non-scented candle, pour a glass of Italian White (produced by Monks at a C16th monastery) and switch off.
Oh for a 'Life so Sweet' Give me back the simple things in life.
Its 6:50pm, the steak is marinating, the aubergines are under the grill. The phone rings (as it has a habit of doing at dinner time) I answer it - a one second silence, then a voice, not unlike the sound an echo being sucked up by a vacuum cleaner, responds. “How are you today?". I reply (in a state of high irritation) “I really don’t think that should be any concern of yours.” Not put off by this affront the voice continues, assuring me that he is “just checking that you have everything you need from your telephone, internet and mobile provider.” I reply that “yes I do” hastily adding “thank you”, in the hopes that this simply courtesy will get me off the hook. No such luck, the voice continues “I can guarantee to make you even more content by offering you a price cut, discounts, and numerous other bells and whistles.”
I less than politely take my leave and head for the kitchen. Not to be, I’m stopped mid stride by a buzz on the intercom. It’s the Foxtel guy wanting to regale me with the reasons why I should go the digital way. He engages scare tactics – "if you don’t go digital you'll loose access to the history channel". Now he’s got my attention. This is just not possible as I have no desire to miss out on my escape to those periods in human evolution that were untouched by technology. Consider it a done deal..I sign up.
Dinner is a disaster, over marinated steak that tastes more like venison than beef and incinerated aubergines. I have no choice but to revert to using the microwave to heat up frozen leftovers.
Two down - bad luck comes in three's. It's not over yet. A final check of my emails for the day delivers a dose of technology over- kill. The Christmas flight to the US has had a schedule change. The bank hasn’t paid the Visa account because apparently I didn’t pick up my confirmation pin number, which comes to me, courtesy of a text message on my mobile. There's confirmation of my registration for E-tag – I can now use the cross city tunnel to go to the Organic Market at Orange Grove School. The last piece de resistance is from a real estate agent letting me know that he has found me the perfect apartment. Joy oh joy, it has a much sought after media alcove.
Time to restore my equilibrium and my sanity. I run a bubble bath, light a non-scented candle, pour a glass of Italian White (produced by Monks at a C16th monastery) and switch off.
Oh for a 'Life so Sweet' Give me back the simple things in life.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
A Doggy Conversation
I had a doggy conversation today; it went like this.
Her:"Don't you hate it when they do that?" I'm thinking to myself, do what?
Me: "Fortunately I don't have a dog".
Her:"Oh! they're really very good company, (I guess that I must have had the look of someone in need of company) "roll in something nasty" she replied. Her: directing the conversation to the dog, "No more hot soapy baths for you (I concluded that she was keen on reducing Woollahra's reputation as the biggest water users in Sydney)
But no, her to me "I'll just have to hose her down with cold water". My turn to reply."Are you allowed to use the hose"? Her reply, "I don't care, I'll be using it for a thirty second hose down, I'm certainly not touching her in that state". Dogs are obviously exempt from the Sydney wide water restrictions.
To me, as a non-dog owner, doggy talk is on a par with baby talk. Why is it that dog owners and proud new parents have the feeling that they have the right to inflict this unsolicited information on an unappreciative audience of total strangers?
My daily commute starts with a ten-minute, what should be pleasant walk, through a leafy park. For me, a ground level commune with nature is a joy before heading to a high-rise office in the city. Out walking with me are dog owners and their dogs taking their morning exercise and answering their dog's call of nature.
I have nothing against sharing my path with the dogs or their owners, but I have no desire to engage in unsolicited doggy conversation with them.
It goes like this. Owner to dog: "Leave the lady alone, don't sniff her handbag their's no food in there". Wrong - clever dog has sniffed out my hastily prepared lamb and lettuce sandwich.
Owner to dog: "Aren't you ever so cute (read obstinate, my version) blocking the lady's path, she just might be in a hurry".
This is the two on one approach, it gets much worse though. My horror walk is when I'm confronted with the doggy 'play school group', en masse. Path,what path? The dogs and their owners have total monopoly. The doggy talk reaches stratospheric levels of stupidity. I-Pod headset wearers are on to a winner.
No, I don't hate dogs, but I do object to being engaged in doggy conversation.
One positive comment though, in my leafy suburb they do at least pick up the pooh.
Her:"Don't you hate it when they do that?" I'm thinking to myself, do what?
Me: "Fortunately I don't have a dog".
Her:"Oh! they're really very good company, (I guess that I must have had the look of someone in need of company) "roll in something nasty" she replied. Her: directing the conversation to the dog, "No more hot soapy baths for you (I concluded that she was keen on reducing Woollahra's reputation as the biggest water users in Sydney)
But no, her to me "I'll just have to hose her down with cold water". My turn to reply."Are you allowed to use the hose"? Her reply, "I don't care, I'll be using it for a thirty second hose down, I'm certainly not touching her in that state". Dogs are obviously exempt from the Sydney wide water restrictions.
To me, as a non-dog owner, doggy talk is on a par with baby talk. Why is it that dog owners and proud new parents have the feeling that they have the right to inflict this unsolicited information on an unappreciative audience of total strangers?
My daily commute starts with a ten-minute, what should be pleasant walk, through a leafy park. For me, a ground level commune with nature is a joy before heading to a high-rise office in the city. Out walking with me are dog owners and their dogs taking their morning exercise and answering their dog's call of nature.
I have nothing against sharing my path with the dogs or their owners, but I have no desire to engage in unsolicited doggy conversation with them.
It goes like this. Owner to dog: "Leave the lady alone, don't sniff her handbag their's no food in there". Wrong - clever dog has sniffed out my hastily prepared lamb and lettuce sandwich.
Owner to dog: "Aren't you ever so cute (read obstinate, my version) blocking the lady's path, she just might be in a hurry".
This is the two on one approach, it gets much worse though. My horror walk is when I'm confronted with the doggy 'play school group', en masse. Path,what path? The dogs and their owners have total monopoly. The doggy talk reaches stratospheric levels of stupidity. I-Pod headset wearers are on to a winner.
No, I don't hate dogs, but I do object to being engaged in doggy conversation.
One positive comment though, in my leafy suburb they do at least pick up the pooh.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
The Humble Mechanic
Here’s a man with his foot placed firmly on life’s reality pedal.
A ‘grease monkey’ to the core. No grandiose high rise for him.
The garage forecourt and workshop on the corner of a busy road is his castle.
Noise, dirt and grime, hoists and pits are his domain. The camaraderie
is infectious. You know that you’re among people that are doing their
job because it’s not only what they do, but also what they enjoy.
I drive a car that has been in circulation for twenty five years. My friends call it my anti establishment machine. The paint work no longer responds to a cut and polish and the roof and bonnet sport golf ball size pock marks, the result of a freak Sydney hailstorm.
For the past six years it has been serviced and had ‘rego’ checks at my local garage.
With each advancing year it becomes a greater challenge to get it through the ‘rego’ check. Were I to ditch my humble mechanic and transfer my aged car’s loyalties to another garage, it would have been sent to the tanners long ago. My guy likes the challenge. This year my 'loyal companion' hit its biggest hurdle yet, the silent killer, rust, threatened to be the master of its demise. After an in depth consultation with the humble mechanic we came to a compromise – cut out sufficient rust to get it past the ‘rego’ inspection. Cost to be kept to a minimum to avoid exceeding the’ trade in for parts’ value of the car. The result, a labour of love, a vision to behold. Gone were the fist sized holes and smudgy rust marks, in their place pristine perfection. It was with great joy that I handed over the cash.
Next step was to get the inspection report transferred electronically to the
Roads and Traffic Authority. When I asked my humble mechanic if this had been done
he sheepishly replied that he was “only the guy that cut out the rust, not the guy that handled the paper work”. He was flabbergasted when I praised his role as being of paramount importance. I drove off triumphant, knowing that I had scored yet another reprieve for my dream machine.
There’s a sequel to this story.
It was raining heavily the first time I used the car, post its 'face lift'.
To my horror, the inside of the windscreen took on the guise of a dam
spillway. The rust was cut out alright, but the windscreen hadn’t been sealed.
Back to the humble mechanic. My return attracted a bevy of mechanics all offering advice on how to reverse the situation without, at great expense, removing the windscreen. A consensus was reached; a silicon seal around the window would do the trick. It was mutually agreed that there would be no charge but as I drove off one of the guys shouted out "he is a big chocolate cake fan" to which I replied “done”.
A ‘grease monkey’ to the core. No grandiose high rise for him.
The garage forecourt and workshop on the corner of a busy road is his castle.
Noise, dirt and grime, hoists and pits are his domain. The camaraderie
is infectious. You know that you’re among people that are doing their
job because it’s not only what they do, but also what they enjoy.
I drive a car that has been in circulation for twenty five years. My friends call it my anti establishment machine. The paint work no longer responds to a cut and polish and the roof and bonnet sport golf ball size pock marks, the result of a freak Sydney hailstorm.
For the past six years it has been serviced and had ‘rego’ checks at my local garage.
With each advancing year it becomes a greater challenge to get it through the ‘rego’ check. Were I to ditch my humble mechanic and transfer my aged car’s loyalties to another garage, it would have been sent to the tanners long ago. My guy likes the challenge. This year my 'loyal companion' hit its biggest hurdle yet, the silent killer, rust, threatened to be the master of its demise. After an in depth consultation with the humble mechanic we came to a compromise – cut out sufficient rust to get it past the ‘rego’ inspection. Cost to be kept to a minimum to avoid exceeding the’ trade in for parts’ value of the car. The result, a labour of love, a vision to behold. Gone were the fist sized holes and smudgy rust marks, in their place pristine perfection. It was with great joy that I handed over the cash.
Next step was to get the inspection report transferred electronically to the
Roads and Traffic Authority. When I asked my humble mechanic if this had been done
he sheepishly replied that he was “only the guy that cut out the rust, not the guy that handled the paper work”. He was flabbergasted when I praised his role as being of paramount importance. I drove off triumphant, knowing that I had scored yet another reprieve for my dream machine.
There’s a sequel to this story.
It was raining heavily the first time I used the car, post its 'face lift'.
To my horror, the inside of the windscreen took on the guise of a dam
spillway. The rust was cut out alright, but the windscreen hadn’t been sealed.
Back to the humble mechanic. My return attracted a bevy of mechanics all offering advice on how to reverse the situation without, at great expense, removing the windscreen. A consensus was reached; a silicon seal around the window would do the trick. It was mutually agreed that there would be no charge but as I drove off one of the guys shouted out "he is a big chocolate cake fan" to which I replied “done”.
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