Staff Retention. Seriously?

Granted it's not like me to snuggle down in a dark corner with a reviving beverage but I've taken a serious chunk of downtime over the last few weeks to relax and forget about the awful mess I made of my book's synopsis. The publisher was unimpressed and my mentor, having talked me down from the Nest's highest bough, told me it should have been written seriously in the first person singular and not as a romp through my bizarre life.  Why didn't anyone tell me this before?  I had copious notes and the handouts from Uni to refer to and the Internet as backup, so what could go wrong?  Everything apparently.

With hindsight, I can only put it down to losing the plot because that's exactly what's happened at the hospital from hell too. I thought the Body Shop was bad but this is the stuff of nightmares, and I'm currently avoiding any whiff of the management by diving into bed linen cupboards.  There's lots to chose from on each floor and I've hidden a bottle of Bailey's Chocolate in each, behind the TED's stockings box. Anything to avoid being asked,
"Are you alright Raven?" Spoken in a voice most people would use to apologise for kicking an Andrex Puppy so I've started to call her that.

My problem started after a torrid weekend on the Ward when our crippling staff shortage final broke the will to live of this solitary Raven. At the midway point of the week, I'd been honest with the management about my abilities to prepare notes and files for our high dependency ward on the top floor.  Blunt even
"I have never done this before and I will need help."  I fingered the raised area on my forehead which read 'MUG' backwards.
"Don't you worry your miniscule brain about this ... all will be well."
"I'm not worried but you will be by Friday if this isn't sorted out."  It wasn't, and it all kicked off on Saturday morning when the ward notes were still in tatters.  Oh, all the bits of paper were there but I had no chuffin' idea where they belonged, and with a phone to each ear and a tub of Quality Street for backup, I made an executive call alerting the management to my problem. Again. I almost cried when she said,
"I've called your line manager and she has assured me you know how to do this."  She was wrong and luckily, the cavalry arrived in the form of the incumbant who was passing by and dutifully checking Monday would not be pear shaped on arrival.  And so there was a meeting called and in the true style of an Unkindness of Ravens, I was about to be pecked to death.

Seven of us crammed into a tiny meeting room; all hormonal and one of us seething with fury. Me.  Shall I go around the room? And you know it's going to be bad when the management start off with a little speech about supporting staff and taking staff retention very seriously.  Hah!  The initial question came from the Rota Witch.
"Why didn't you say you needed help earlier."
"I did, last Wednesday, and again on Friday but when I got around to the management office, the Andrex Puppy was already involved with another crisis. So I went back to the Ward and got on with it."  My fault of course and for that I accept responsibility.  And I should have dissolved into floods of tears which is the usual way folks get noticed around here.

"But you didn't get on with it and I've got KPIs to fulfill.  Why wasn't it done?"
"Because both phones were ringing all Friday night and all Saturday morning. Hard to work with a phone in each hand."  This went straight over her head.
"If you didn't do your job, how am I going to explain it?" Lie, like everyone else in this room would.

In grudge-match meetings like this, there's always one who's only there to save her own arse feathers and bang on cue up chirps Stephanotis.
"I did thirty sets of notes on my shift last week. What's your problem?"  Her 'problem' is she's leaving in three weeks so her responsibility levels have waned to a point of non-existence. I pecked back.
"And how many phone calls did you take, appointments did you make and patients did you relate to?"
"None."
"Well unless you've got something constructive to contribute, shut your beak." Stupidly, I hoped Malone would spring to my aid but I couldn't have been more misguided.
"You didn't tell me you couldn't do this either. Remember I came back on Friday afternoon and you said it was all under control." The knife went straight into my back at the third intercostal space thus ending a beautiful friendship. You see, she know and I had told her but she'd just landed a plumb job which she will be bored with in a couple of months and was determined that none of the poo was going to land in her direction.

This appeared to be the downturn in the proceedings because the management contingent suddenly woke up to the veracity of my complaints.  In the threatening silence that followed, the silent minority decided to chip in a few words of encouragement.  Determined to be supportive and thoroughly nice, LouLou had come armed with the Ward Administration Bible which she had written a couple of years ago.
"You say you didn't know how to prep notes but it's all in the book Raven."  She'd brought handouts.
"Oh, that book. The one I've never had time to read since I walked through the door you mean?"  I would've been there all night reading the manual trying to find the right bits of paper to insert in the appropriate slot, absolutely guaranteeing chaos on the following Monday morning.
"All the necessary information is written there when you need it, yes."  Luckily, she's not bright enough to realise how daft she sounded or how close she came to having the file parked up her rectal sphincter muscle.

I got out of there alive on the understanding I would be rota'd back on Ward 2 for further training because, according to the management,
"It might give you more confidence."  The Andrex Puppy was speaking again. "And we're very short staffed."
"I've been behind the controls of a Boeing 737!"  I wanted to shout at them. "Do I look like I'm lacking in the confidence department?" It was an hour before the hormones subsided in the linen cupboard and I'd had a chance to assess the damage.  Not to my career because I patently don't have one. Or to my sense of humour which is priceless. Honestly, I felt fine until Malone caught up with me on the stairs.
"Sorry about that Raven but I wasn't going to do anything to scupper my new job, was I?"
"No. But you've lost a friend forever.  Oh, and here's your knife back."

Tip of the Beak: Please watch the Dr Who mini-episode on BBC iPlayer.  I nearly fainted with happiness at the sight of Paul McGann in his frock coat and will be transfixed to the tele for The Day of the Doctor on Saturday night.  It's like being a little kid again but I won't be hiding behind the sofa.  I only do that after encounters with our management.

Raven

 

What Deadline?

I thought I'd got away with it. Sitting here at the PC, I'd been staring at a blank screen and frittering away the morning on www.shoeaholic.com instead of engaging myself with the job at hand. Writing a synopsis; the bane of a novelist's life.  I hate them because it means engaging in the thought process of trying to work out what my novel's actually about.  Every ten minutes or so, I've employed many of the best known distraction techniques known to writers world wide. Just this morning, I've baked a carrot cake and washed the food mixer and all the attachments, by hand, while Alphonse was reading the sports pages.

And I thought I was doing a brilliant job of avoiding his x-ray vision until was standing at my side with a bacon sandwich, his not mine, and spoke these immortal words;
"Okay. So when's the deadline?"
"What deadline?" In denial as usual Raven?
"The one you're obviously avoiding ..."
"There is no deadline.  You are wrong for once." He's a Virgo. He is only misguided but never wrong. Unexpectedly for a Sunday morning, Alphonse seemed to want to point out some serious home truths.
"The water filter has been changed. The camera is on charge even though it won't be needed until Halloween. Both sock drawers are in pristine order.  My ties are sorted into colours ... even though I don't wear one. I can see my face in the cooker hood and someone ..." How he loves those dramatic pauses and yet I was determined to remain defiant in the face of a full MI5 interrogation session.
"Someone has taught the cat to select his preferred flavour pouch from the box."  He was on to me and my diversionary tactics; all those irritating little tasks I only do in the face of a deadline. Finally, I caved in and mumbled,
"First of November."
"Not a chance." He was almost gleeful in his assessment of my situation
"Why not?"
"You've started making jam."
"Why's that stopping me writing?"
 "Because you could nip over to Lidl and buy it like you have done for the past ten years."

Excuse the rather fragmented nature of this blog post, I've just had to wander into the kitchen for a sandwich and a warming cuppa.  Since I was in the vicinity, I've washed up too and chopped the veg for dinner, and considered how many kilos of assorted sweets we'll need for the Trick-or-Treat bucket.  I could go to the enormous Tesco, the one with the wide screen televisions and enormous 'reductions' section; it's only 14 miles from here which should kill about three hours or I could do the smart thing and buy 10 bags of charity sweets from the box on Reception and save some time.  Although Amber, one of the medical secretaries, had got there before me on Friday night and was routing through the box with a sugar-deprived glint in her eye.
"What are you still doing here?" The first answer that came to mind was 'minding my own business' but I like her and her daughter who taught me everything I needed to know about my job. The interesting stuff you understand, not the mind-numbing filing.
"I'm here 'til eight.  Such is life." I watched in horror as she used her teeth to gain entry to a bag of quasi Galaxy Minstrels with an extra crisp candy coat that sounded like maracas when shaken.
"Know that.  I mean why are you here every night doing this horrible job when you have better things to do with your life?"  I opened my beak but no smart answer emerged.  I felt like a guppy on a fishmonger's slab.
"You've got me there ..."
"Well do something about it or you'll end up like the rest of us saddos.  Chocolate?"
"No thanks.  Not unless you've got an ice pick to remove the hard-as-granite shell."
"Wimp." Amber's laser vision eyes had started to return to their usual green as she sucked hard on the sugar.
"Expensive choppers."
"Great excuse.  Just don't find a reason to stay here after your sell-by date."  I checked out the chocolates later and they were good to the end of this century.

Tip of the Blog:  There's been shouting on the ward this week. By me at someone who has been wasting my time.  I should tell you all about it but there’s a whole box set of Porridge to watch before bedtime.

Raven

Everyone's A Winner

I've been somewhat diverted from writing of late because of a chocolate cake.  Poor excuse I know but you could almost taste the pheromones of competitiveness coursing around the hospital last week as our own version of the "Great British Bake Off" technical challenge took place on Ward 1.  Imagine the scene; seventeen bakers of all ages and dress size took on the Mary Berry 'chocolate sponge cake challenge' all in aid of the Macmillan Nurses charity; it was carnage.  We'd all been given the recipe at least a fortnight in advance so the playing field was level[ish], but mostly to give ourselves the opportunity to prepare and cheat where necessary; and believe me the mental preparation was vital.  Some people are natural-born winners like MedSec Barty who won a petrol mower recently.  It's irrelevant that she hasn't got a lawn, she says, and has resolved to save up for a bigger nest, with grass.  What matters is that she's a winner.  And so I got stuck in baking the cake with a winner's frame of mind.

"Preparation, preparation, preparation."  Chant this and all will be well, I told myself.  At the first attempt I made half the recipe in case it flopped in the middle, and was delighted instead with a fluffy and light chocolate gateaux fit for the Paul Hollywood Poke.  Have you noticed how he gets a finger and stabs it right in the centre of everything?  I always expect the poor buns to pop under his extreme inspection technique and prayed there would be none of this aggressiveness with our cakes.  And so the night before the judging I was armed with a schedule timed down to the last second and ingredients prepped and ready, I set to work after a long shift.

The longest job of any cake is greasing and lining the two cake tins and before you ask, yes I'd been out and bought new ones because my usual 20 year old Tala models with little or no Teflon left on them were not of the regulation size.  Job done, I mixed the cocoa power with boiling water into paste, lobbed it into the already prepared dry ingredients and turned on the mixer.  "Beat until light and creamy" it clearly states but after I'd added the eggs I sensed this wasn't quite the result Mary Berry had intended because it looked like slurry from one of the local farms.  On the plus side, it smelled like heaven.  So, into the oven and pacing like a new father in the maternity ward, I waited for the beast to start rising away from the bottom of the cake tin.  Except it didn't.  Twenty five minutes later both halves looked like large digestive biscuits.  And weeping tears of frustration I tried to get one out of the tin an hour later, it broke in half like the Great African Rift Valley and oozed all over the table.  There's only so much that chocolate cream icing will cover

Undefeated, I went back to Tesco at 11.00 pm and bought another stock of eggs and butter, and set the alarm.  Sleep?  I was so wired from the fumes of Green & Black's finest organic 70% that I'm sure I slept with my eyes open.  At 6.00 am, I was standing in the kitchen before my first mug of tea thinking,
"What the flock am I doing here?"  Winning.  That's what. So I started again, and this time made a delightfully even confection, jammed it up with Asda apricot conserve and made bacon sarnies for Alphonse while it cooled down.  Oh, we don't get treated to these every day as he's on statins but I felt really guilty of neglect somehow.  After all, the dreaded cakes had cost almost as much as the weekly shop if you take the petrol into account and I was in it for the glory.

I'd timed it to perfection for 8.30 am and the journey to work.  I'd even allowed for the school traffic and had battened down the cake with cling film to a silver wedding cake board.  Sadly, I hadn't allowed for the speed humps by the church and, braking just a little too sharply, I sensed the top half of the sponge slide effortlessly away from the jam and land in two pieces.  Make up your own swear words here, I did.  Life teaches us that Plan A is of no use if you haven't got a Plan B.  So I ran into the canteen, grabbed a palette knife and hoofed the two halves back together, jiggled with the topping and covered the whole lot in icing sugar because I'd brought it with me just in case.  Gorgeous it looked.  Good as new.  When I got upstairs and presented myself, why then did the chief judge look me in the eye and say,
"Have you been eating icing sugar again Raven?"
"What?"
"Your face is covered.  And you look like you've been rolling in ... well it's brown and sticky, so I'm guessing it's chocolate."
It's true.  As I placed my now priceless cake in a row with sixteen others and next to the one with the company logo stencilled in edible glitter, I looked like I'd been snorting cocaine after rolling in dog poo.

Anyway, some time passed while the judging team got stuck in and I have to admire their dedication.  Apparently, the four senior citizens resting in the corner later were volunteers from the Macmillan charity and deserve medals of their own for excess cake consumption.  When the results came out, I'd won a certificate and joint First Prize with one of the nurses, and Sandra had bagged the certificate for a plate of excellent scones. When I got home that night clutching my bottle of fizz and a wearing a huge grin, I asked Alphonse if he's like some cake with his pack up?
"Can I have fruit instead of cake?"
"No."
"Crisps then?  I've gone right off the smell of cake." Fair enough. I was feeling a bit bilious myself but my pride was at stake.
"Still NO!"  On closer inspection though, the cake I'd bought for charity had started to sweat and not in a ladylike manner so I softened my resolve.
"I'll buy you lunch tomorrow then.  Sushi maybe ... noodles.  Anything but cake."
I was too happy to care honestly, as I'd finally broken the jinx of a lifetime and won something, and I've been high for the last week although that may be the remains of the sugar rush.

Tip of the Blog:  On the day we'd raised over £700 for the Macmillan Nurses Coffee Morning, the one person who hadn't worked out the 'Bake Off' vibe was a visitor who stood at my desk asking a whole loads of irrelevant questions.  I'm guessing he was bored and wanted to escape his relative's room for some human/raven contact.  Eventually, he quipped,
"It's alright, you ladies can get back to your computer games now." He turned away unaware that he had awoken my inner Robert de Niro from Taxi Driver.
"Sorry. You talking to me???"  I'd had a particularly testy consultant standing over me for ten minutes previously and I was in no mood.
"Oh, I know what you girls are like the minute the boss's head's turned.  It's all Facebook and internet shopping."  We all froze as one and turned in his direction like The Stepford Nurses.
"Facebook? At Work? Are You NUTS??"  Still high on the Green & Blacks, Saab reached for a syringe and I had to be forcibly restrained from administering the Vulcan Death Grip.  Pass the Green & Blacks someone.

Raven

Pain and Mischief Managed

"Pain Management" is the latest buzz phrase in the sedation world and is proving very popular in these parts.  Loosely translated into plain English it means "someone is going to take a large syringe of anaesthetic attached to a brutally sharp needle and plunge it into your buttock."  Follow this procedure with the words, "There you go old chap, pain managed."  And it seems to work as long as the recipient follows the surgeon's advice.  You'd think with a mark the size a 50p piece on your bum and a numb leg that you'd do as the surgeon says.  Ha!  Imagine my horror when the call came from an injectee on this quiet Saturday morning asking,
"Can I take the dog for a walk?"  The instructions are implicit: light exercise for seven days meaning pottering in the garden and making a cup of tea. 
"Unlikely but I will check with the Nurse In Charge." I trotted over to the treatment room and ran back to the phone in a hail of bad language and shouts of "Not on your life!!!"  Deep breath Raven.
"Best you rest for a week and let someone else walk the pooch."  I hate to be the bearer of bad news and was trying to be friendly, and the devil in me had to ask "What kind of dog is it?"
"It's a German Shepherd and needs three miles a day.  If I don't walk him soon he's going to eat the sofa."  Lucky for me Pomello was sitting close by and reading the riot act thus saved the patient from a more painful conversation with the surgeon in two weeks' time.

You may think I'm mocking the afflicted but far from it; I'm empathising.  As the ungrateful recipient of a 5th lumbar injury during a Kung Fu demonstration somewhere around my 20th birthday, I would have walked to Mars if that had stopped the pain.  It didn't; neither did chiropractic or several osteopaths.  It also put a massive crimp in my ambitions to follow Bruce Lee along the path to the nearest Shaolin Temple, or to wear decent heels for the next decade. Still, I wear heels now and was rocking the night away at a Hen Party later on Saturday evening but obviously don't have to same stamina for it as I did in my 20's.  I also have a very low threshold when it comes to disco-cocktail bars with bouncers on the door and had found myself in a classic example of the genre about 11.30; well past my nesting time.  The entire crowd were like a massive conga line, snaking in the door, bumping & grinding along where the seats were, stopping off at the square metre of disco space and hustling forward slowly towards the bar to be fleeced for a load of coloured ice with vodka. And all the girls looked the same - flesh coloured dresses and weird, matted hair.  I save that look for early mornings but what do I know?  One of our number, Pineapple, has flaming ruby hair and in a skin tight frock of the same hue, she always draws a crowd of onlookers and one particular ape in the jungle had put half coconut shells down his shirt in a last desperate attempt to attract her attention.  It might have worked had the shells enhanced his already ample moobs but it created more a vision of King Louie from The Jungle Book singing 'I'm the King of the Swingers.'  His mates and the cocktail staff were all in Hawaiian shirts and it just compounded the picture of jungle mayhem; if only the fake Easter Island stone heads had started to sing we could have had another Disney classic.

When I was ready for a brandy & horlicks, I offered to help Malone stagger up the hill to the meeting point with her chauffeur but, in her condition, it was only a matter of time before she fell down a drain cover.  Still, when we'd made it to the top she slurred,
"Bettr wet here.  No late. Be here in mnut." Her lips had turned rubbery when the cold air hit them.
"I'm not standing on the corner propping you up like this."
"Whynot?"  Because we looked like the two oldest slappers in town, and she was in a fringed dress that was blowing in the wind like a 1950's lampshade.  Thankfully, the Audi turned up and all I heard through her husband's gales of laughter was
"She's such a lightweight."  Me too.

I digress because I've not mentioned the Bride to Be who, being from Eastern Europe, is game for a laugh with all the tinsel, flashing badges, durex and head gear she was forced to wear during the meal.  At least we didn't chain her to a lamp-post even though she begged us to for the photographs she's sending home to her Mum. She is also a brilliant keeper of secrets at work, in a place where everyone knows everyone's business.  For reasons I'm keeping under wraps for the time being, I want to expand my typing skillbase to include the MRI and CT scanning clinics and had secretly volunteered to do a trial session recently.  In charge of the department is the lovely Mandarin, who promised we could keep it to ourselves just in case I made a right fool of myself.  As it turned out, I didn't do too badly with the Asian consultant's dictation and was looking forward to hearing the results.  It was only seconds before Mandarin started laughing and called others into the room. They also looked at me and had a hearty laugh before patting me on the shoulder saying
"Brilliant.  The best laugh we've had for months Raven.  You can come again."
"It looks okay, what've I done??"  More laughter until Mandarin put me out of my misery.
"DrB doesn't ever describe the CT scanning technique as "looking good"."
"I'm not going deaf ... that's what he said." And so she played it back to me.
"Routine protocol."  Crystal clear.  Oh the pain of humiliation.
"Rubbish. I know what I heard!"  And after several offers to put my head in the scanner, I departed with my beak down at my belly button and bumped into the Bride to Be, who chirped
"So now you work here too??"  Big smile.
"No! NO! You mustn't tell anyone.  I've only done a quick trial." She wasn't convinced.
"You'd be really good.  All that medical stuff and jargon.  What's the secret?"
"I just don't want it to look like I'm scouting for jobs."  She didn't understand.  She also didn't understand why we'd kept her Hen Party doings a secret either.  Where she hails from, the whole town turns up, they all get riotously drunk into the night and no-one gets chained to a lamp post.  Pity!

Tip of the Blog:  I've had a few issues with the bloke in the nest over the road.  Nothing personal but his ancient [vintage] Fiesta blows black soot out of the exhaust and all over the bonnet of my car; usually after it's been fastidiously valeted by Alphonse.  Yes it wipes off but that's not the point because he always parks the heap too close and makes sure he revs the engine before roaring off, thus showing incredible maturity and not overcompensating in the slightest.  One particularly sleepless night last week, I resolved to have it out with him. Ten minutes later, there was a lot of shouting and a loud bang outside which catapulted me into the upright position and was soon standing, staring out of the window.  The Fiesta in question and a BMW had had a coming together in the dark resulting in much wreckage of the front bumper.  I believe the Beemer had a titchy scratch which polished out the following day.  As Harry Potter would say "Mischief managed."

Raven

Two for your Kindle.

On a rather odd kind of day when the fifteen kids next door are intent on murdering each other at a family gathering, I've been gainfully employed having a clear out of the nether regions of the nest.  Downstairs, in the scant remains of the library, you can't imagine my delight in finding two treasured books huddling together unread recently, but far from unloved.  Cast your mind back to the 1990s when travel shows on Channel 4 had real explorers to show us how to find the empty corners of the planet, rather than the mahogany hues of Judith Chalmers waffling on about the charms of a family package holiday in Ibiza.  There aren't any charms Judith, I've been there.  Twice.  And after a short spell on the nudist beach at Cala Jack, and being chased away from a restaurant near St Vincente by a savage dog who only wanted to make a dog-chew out of the Mini Moke's spare tyre, I got so drunk at the Es Cana market I bought a yellow sundress that turned out, on sobering up, to be a table cloth.

Still, back to the two books.  They are 'McCarthy's Bar' and 'The Road to McCarthy' by one of the funniest and most brilliant travel writers ever, Mr Pete McCarthy.  Before you ask, he hailed from Warrington not Ireland, and the premise of both books is "Never pass a bar with your name on it."  Difficult for us Raven's and despite extensive research, drinking holes dedicated to the corvid species are few and far between.  I have been to Ireland though.  Twice. And although my paternal grandfather hailed from Dun Laoghaire, I don't believe that slim connection makes me Oirish by default.  It would be akin to buying an Audi, shouting "Vorsprung Durch Technik" and immediately being qualified for a German stamp on your passport.  I only mention this because Raven Malone has a new Audi TT and came back from the teutonic awfulness of the dealership clutching the bill for a new wing mirror, plus the gizmo that makes it work and the artisan paint job; the total was an audacious £700.00 plus VAT. I'm still smirking because they threw in a bucket of dreadful customer service too.

Later the same day, I had an unsettling conversation with one of the medical secretaries who after two decades in the same job is packing up and heading back to her roots.  She also has a 'McC' in her name and was very forthcoming when I asked her reasons.
"Twenty three years in the Shires has sent me soft in the head.  At least when I'm home, I won't have to book an appointment with my friends to nip round for a cuppa."  She's right y'know; that's how it is around here.  It's one of the reasons I write, simply because the end result is better than beta-blockers or alcohol addiction.
"Is it that the grass is greener up there in Fazakerley?" I had to know and for decency, I've omitted the swear words.
"You bet it's greener."  Vivid emerald, tourmaline or gin bottle maybe?  "Too right. Not the morbid grey green snot we get around here."  Don't think she'll be back, do you?

When I first visited Ireland in 2002, it was mainly because I'd read McCarthy's Bar and decided to find out the truth behind the comedy.  Also, my chum Reggie and I had received glowing reports of the twenty shades of green around every corner; and the craic of course. The trouble with Dublin is that when you find the craic, you can't afford it.  I was charged the equivalent of a day's car hire for two soft drinks and a black velvet in Bono's hotel, The Connaught, with its octagonal bar crafted from rare Amazonian timbers. But don't let me put you off because it's a magical place once you get away from the tourist nonsense.  Like the mid-Summer's evening, dressed in Berghaus jackets to protect us from the cold, we decided to go for a walk in search of something a bit different from Irish stew. Crossing the Liffey on the newly constructed Millennium Bridge, our way was blocked by a young couple in tears and hugging as if it was their last day on Earth. They were obviously in need of someone to chat to.
"Been together since we was kids ... fell out over some stupid nonsense ... been apart for thirteen months and four days and we've just met up in a bar and I miss her so much ...bought the champagne because I had to know."  More sobbing followed before the bottle was thrust in my direction to open whilst Reggie held the glasses. "She loves me and we're getting married."  I hate to see a grown man cry like that but she looked happy enough.  Oddly enough, me and Reggie never talked about that couple ever again, mainly because we've rarely spoken since our return to the UK.

It's true what they say about choosing your travelling companions with care.  Like two old friends, I would gladly choose Pete McCarthy's books to travel with because his writing adds pure joy to a dull day. Download them for your e-reader of choice and laugh like a drain at his brilliant writing and natural good humour. Sadly though, as he is no longer with us, we've been robbed of a quality comedian who should have been a headline act on Live at the Apollo. Twice.

Tip of the Blog:  I'll keep quiet about my trip to Ballymena, mainly because I can't remember much about the place as I went on business, pre-Year 2000.  I do remember my lunch though; a Chinese stir fry, Ulster style. I also vividly recall the very accommodating waitress who came over and apologised because the chef felt he had under-seasoned the dish of salt chicken, salt pineapple and vegetables crafted mainly of salt. Twice. These days, I'm still on the total-exclusion regime and a sharp peck usually follows any offer of crisps or salt'n'vinegar on my chips.

Raven

Crime & Punishment

It's only now the remains of the last few weeks have settled on the crypt floor that I can put it all in perspective and have a jolly good laugh about the whole work situation.  HaHaHa ... there, I did it.  Mirthless and dry but I'm still laughing about the crime I've committed by saying "No."  As with the Retail Cathedral, most employers these days have bought into the fantasy that all staff must be 'fully flexible'.  After 13 years of yoga I can bend over backwards with the best of them but I'm not going to commit to working practices that make idiots of us all.  Part of my punishment was being given awful shifts by the Replacement Rota Fairy, i.e.

• 10-12     Ward Filing because it's out of control due to staff shortages
• 12-2       Oncology Ward Clerk to prep this weeks notes because they are so far behind
• 2-4         Ward Clerk on a different ward to the first two
• 4-8         The Bunker - more filing but different to this morning
• Home      I finally had my lunch break

On the whole, it meant I couldn't get into any role before the needs of the business pulled me in a different direction.  Just like the Body Shop really.  And when I tore myself away from the filing at noon, I found the Oncology Admin Manager mumbling to herself; this happens a lot.  So I urged her to get it off her chest and she was unexpectedly forthcoming,
"I didn't take this job to be my own friggin' ward clerk."  Realising her gaff, she carried on digging her own hole.  "No offence Raven but ..."
"None taken." I know how much in demand I am and am considering banking for the NHS.  If only there was a hospital near me.  Still, the OAM kept on digging.
"Not that there's anything wrong with being a ward clerk."  Really?  "But the previous one did naff all for two hours and now you're here, why can't I keep you all day?"
"Perhaps you should consult the people who promoted you into this seat."  A rare moment of tact and diplomacy followed where I didn't refer the perks of her new role including an office with a nice, shiny desk.  I don't even have a locker for my handbag but then us bottom-feeder ward clerks don't count, do we?  The OAM carried on muttering for minutes until she almost burst with one final question.
"Where exactly do you think the problem lies here?"
"Criminally insane management?"  Too late, it was out before I could button my beak and no doubt I'll be punished for my honesty too.  It'll come out in conversation next time I'm chained to the wall over some miniscule discretion I didn't commit.

It was about this time that I reached my maximum number of mosquito bites for the summer and the skin on my wing erupted in a rather spectacular way.  Red, itchy and the size of a saucer.  And once you start scratching, the itch gets ten times worse until you're forced to immerse yourself in boiling water.  Aaaaahhh.  Then, when all the creams in Pharmacy had failed to get a result, I went to the doctors for a course of leeches.  I also got weighed and my BP taken, and left with my beak drooping and instructions to 'lose the belly' or else.  Difficult when there's a fresh box of Thornton's finest on the Ward every single day; all gifted from grateful patients.  On Saturday, someone had opened a monster tub of Quality Street, the one with the skull and crossbones on the lid, and everyone who walked past followed the same little dance routine.

• Skid to a halt
• Gaze into the tub looking for the purple one, or for the toffee button
• Say "Oh I shouldn't"  Well don't then ...
• Dip a claw into the pot hoping for their 3rd favourite
• Say "Which is the coconut?"  It's the blue oblong in case you don't know.
• Fifty times I croaked "Take some pleeeeeeease!"

The Rules of Governance don't allow me to use a camera at work but this would have made a brilliant hip-hop routine worthy of YouTube.  I had four in the end but not the toffee button because I want to hang on to my expensive fillings.  Ten minutes later I was buzzing from the sugar rush after a whole week of sugarless tea so the paperwork got mopped up in a frenzy and I could answer two phones at once.  By the end of my shift, I'd come down so hard that I had barely enough strength to eat tea.  Just a light, Quality Street salad for me Alphonse if you don't mind ...

Tip of the Blog:  I thought I'd try public transport for a change and left the car at home on Wednesday; an act of folly which turned me into Jeremy Clarkson.  Long story but don't catch Leicester's UHL bus and expect to get on or off anywhere along the route that isn't a hospital. Especially, don't expect to get off at a bus stop. They're there, you can see them and stand at them, but they don't work.  All this for a £3.00 day ticket.  Priceless.  And thanks to the driver who did stop thinking I was lost or deranged ... I'm neither despite reports to the contrary. 

Raven

Stop Press

"Job 1.4" is no more.  This is how it happened:

On Tuesday of last week, I'd clocked in at 9.00 am and by 10.00 am I was cross eyed and staring at the PC thinking
"What moron developed this computer package?"  The question remains unanswered.  Worse, the notes I'd made the previous day made no sense and may as well have been written in pure Klingon.  Still, I soldiered on until 12.00 only to be told I wouldn't be needed after 1.00 pm because those losing their contracts were being taken to lunch.  And I was to be dispatched to the back room to catch up on the filing for a couple of hours.

Much mumbling went on while I was sorting paper until I had a visitor bearing a cup of tea and a smile.  Another lovely Sandra who is of a completely different generation from my Raven chum.  She patted my arm saying,
"They did it to me too Raven.  Decided I might just slot in and do a bit of typing. Y'know, like the skill I'd been using for 20 years to earn a living was just a hobby."
"That's exactly how it was sold to me too ..."  Sandra nodded.
"And after two months I felt old and stupid."
"It got to me after a couple of hours."  My beak hit the desk.
"Me too." Sandra nodded sagely.  "But I wasn't going to let their daft schemes beat me."

On Thursday, after much mulling, I fetched up determined to end this farce and was told that more senior management had called in sick and I was to amuse myself in the Citadel.  Seeking out even higher management who'd forgotten I was on shift and patently didn't want to talk to me, I was left with no choice but to tell the truth.
"Sorry but this is a crock of detritus you've handed me and I'm not doing it."  That should be enough but when questioned I felt the need to explain. "I have the procedures for three wards and the medical jargon of twelve consultants locked in my head." Not to mention all the other dross I have to take on board. "It's full."  Her answer was unexpected.
"Oh we thought you'd like a jolly bit of typing to slot in with the rest of the stuff you do.  Never mind ... we might get nice Dee to try out as a medical secretary like you.  She did a two-week course about ten years ago ... she should fit in nicely.  You'll train her up, won't you?"
I gave up.  Wouldn't you?

Raven