And on my return to work, there have been changes there too but nothing presented with the sweetness of a Strawberry Mivvy. Let's take a step back and a fresh look at the pile of doodoo I've landed in this time around. "Job 2.1" is really "Job 1.1" and involves being a Medical Records Clerk, pulling files for clinics and wards, filing used files; although finding the missing ones is a forensic science, a bit like a scene from CSI. There are traces of evidence as to who had it last but you'd need a massive IQ or a lie-detector to get to the truth. Oh, and I get to cover on the switchboard when the Admin Team have a meeting.
Then there's "Job 1.2" which is Ward Clerk. I love these gems of the working week because time passes unnoticed with both phones ring at the same time and my shift ends usually with a treat from the Thornton's box and a nice cuppa. And the downside? Well, unless you're a fan of Dara O'Briain's devilish math's programme on Dave, you might find it mind-boggling to work out how the 300 bits of paper used during a 24 hour stay in hospital can be crammed into one small file. It's simple; there's a crib sheet and we stick to it or someone will inform the management.
Another gem of the working week is "Job 1.3" when I join the Medical Secretaries in their lovely, calm office at the end of the corridor with its secret door code that the Neurosurgeon refuses to memorise. It's complicated and interesting and again, time flies because I'm enjoying typing stuff about drug doses, arthritic knees and how we can make people better. We even have our own bathroom whose plumbing has to be 'flushed' once a week on a Friday morning to stop the build-up of legionella pneumophilia. Although I have to leave the room at this point especially if I've had two mugs of tea at breakfast.
So, imagine my horror on return to the coalface when the management said she 'wanted a chat'. They do a lot of chatting and very little listening, but whether that involves any managing, who knows? It seems that because one particular section of the asylum isn't working, I'm being co-opted in to help with the admin and typing. Except there's a skill to getting the right person for the right job and our mob don't seem to have mastered it in 20 years. And you knew there'd be a catch to "Job 1.4" didn't you? Their systems are utterly different to our new system which I'm now au fait with after five torrid months. I don't have a computer login and won't get one for a month if I'm lucky. The audio machine doesn't work unless you put a heavy object on top to keep the lid down and I nearly told one of their doctors to 'sit on it' because she was so rude yesterday.
Technically, I'm ineffective and dangerously bored. The only other Raven here I've called Malone, like the perfume, and she says I look pasty. Personally, I'm brassed off because when the Rota Fairy comes back from holiday, she'll expect me to do double shifts in both parts of this nuthouse. Me, I'm ready for a change and if it involves lounging around in Bohemian clothes and writing my memoirs, then bring it on.
Tip of the Blog: On Monday, during visiting hours, I had a close encounter with my manager from the dairy days at Express. It will cheer me up to call him 'Bumff' especially as he did nothing in two years except attend meetings and conferences, in Florida mainly. Anyway, he chatted away about his new job and how it involved lots of international travel - not work then Bumff? He took in my expanded figure and lack of wedding ring and without warning, blurted out,
"What happened to you? You used to be so NEAT!" He meant prim and proper, but I've grown up since those heady days and without a moment's hesitation, I replied,
"What happened to you? You used to have HAIR!"
Raven
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