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................
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