Space Invaders

New jobs are always a bit hit and miss until you get your claws under the table and establish who-does-what-to-whom in the game of ward politics. In fact Job 2.1 has turned out to be a complex puzzle of roles depending on the day of the week, the ward number, who’s in charge of the nurses and how many consultants require their brows mopping.  And like Kryton in Red Dwarf, I wish I had a spare head; one I could slot into place at the end of each day as a reminder of what passes as ‘normal’ in this mad house.

Don’t get me wrong, I know my place and as ‘bank staff’ I’m languishing at the bum end of the pecking order and up against time-served, partly-institutionalised individuals who are determined despite the turn of the 21^st century, to carry on doing everything in the same way it’s always been done.  I’m uber cool with this from a clinical perspective but for a territorial raven like me, the lack of my own desk space makes me want to pull my tail feathers out.

It’s like this – each ward has a nurses’ office with a PC, mainly for the use of the senior nurses or else. Outside of these offices are erected a U-shaped ward clerk’s desk which is home to another PC where appointments are made, lists are compiled and emails are ignored.  But this desk is also the focal point for everyone who wants to discuss everything over the clerk’s head, in a loud voice, as they did with me on Saturday morning.  Minding my own business, I spied a man standing in my desk space and mistaking him for a lost visitor I chirped,
“Hi.  Who have you come to see this morning?”  Insert big smile here - yet his response was unexpectedly rude.
“I’m not a visitor, I’m a Consultant.”  Said in an emphatic tone indicating his ability to remove my spleen without anaesthetic.  “And I want to know how many spaces there are in my clinic on Monday?”  This had me stumped.
“Well I’d love to tell you but I don’t know who you are.  Sorry.”  Only in the NHS do they wear ID tags and I was expected to know this bloke’s name.  Unhappily, I’d encountered him before on a rare Sunday shift guarding the front door and even then he refused to identify himself.
“I’ve just told you I’m a CONSULTANT with patients on this ward – you should know who I am.”  With seven different surgeons arriving before 8.30am, what was I supposed to do on Jane Austen’s 200^th anniversary, get Mr Darcy to introduce us formally?  I wanted to pull this bloke’s plug.
“Listen mate, I know what you are but I now dislike you so much, I don’t care who you are …”  when the Terrifying Sister emerged from her office and greeted him by name. 

Problem solved, except they now occupied my available desk space and were discussing patients, so I had to shrink myself to a sliver and duck under his armpit to get access to my own PC. Forget sitting down, they’d got the chairs and I was in a lose-lose situation – do I elbow him or her out of the way or stand around looking daft until one of them moves?  I went to make tea instead.

Happily, an emergency took them in different directions and I relaxed enough to clear the pile of detritus left by the nurses.  Okay, medical records have to be filed but I’ve got a tidy mind.  Back in the 1990’s when the whole ‘paperless office’ scenario was devised and a clear desk policy seemed like an achievable nirvana, I’d had my fantasy reinforced by a French & Saunders corporate video called The Paper Chase about the benefits of ‘only touching a piece of paper once.’  It works brilliantly but the paper invading my space comes attached to other stuff, which needs to be Mr Sheen’d regularly or you could stick your head to it.  And it happens every single shift – I sit down, clear some space, do a bit of work and get called away.  When I get back from Pharmacy, Pathology or Taxidermy, another pile of 5hite’s arrived and I have to deal with it.  If things don’t improve, I’m going to need a Psychiatrist or an enormous shredder.  Better still, I’d love my own workspace [measuring at least 11 cubic metres to comply with government legislation] large enough for a bit of a flap.

Tip of the Blog:  To entertain myself this week, I’ve adopted the clipped-consonant speaking style of Matthew McFadyen in Ripper Street.  His diction is so beautiful, I’ve forgiven him for the awful US ending of Pride & Prejudice.  And if he called me on the wards, I’ll be minding my P’s and Q’s and pronouncing my T’s correc[t]ly.

Raven

 

Polar Bear Box

Surrounded by health care professionals these recent months, I’m amazed by their total lack of compassion for a head cold, and certainly they have no time for self pity or ‘milking it’ to get extra biscuits from the treats box.

“Stick Vick on it” barked a specialist nursing sister. “Give your chest a good rub.”

And so I found myself rooting around in the medicine cupboard of our Orwellian kitchen for a familiar tub of medicinal grease.  Unfortunately, once I’d scraped the dust off the packaging, I spied the sell by date as 1995 and headed off to Boots.  It worked a treat and by Twelfth Night I’d recovered my strength, feeling well enough to engage in boxing up the trimmings and to entertain myself with my battery-powered TARDIS biscuit barrel.

Deconstructing from the top, I started with the baubles and after a quick flick with a feather duster [chicken not raven], I nestled their ancient glass ornaments back into the box.  With a wry smile, I imagined myself as a Dress Size 8 again, back in the 1980s when I acquired three miniature Santas from Habitat; they’re sturdy little fellas and will probably outlive the two white bookcases and director’s chair acquired at the same time.  Now they share space with three fuchsia angels from Tesco, and a padded house made out of Dr Who’s jacket.

You’d also be right to assume our tree is black but that’s so wrong on every level; it’s green.  Laughingly described as a ‘Swiss Fir’ on the box, the people who manufactured it had only ever seen pictures of conifers and to give it a touch of authenticity this year I’ve been burning a Yankie Spiced Xmas Wreath & Poisoned Apple scented candle, guaranteed to repel all wildlife for a good 10 metres in all directions.  As I dumped the waxy remains, a vague memory surfaced from the 1960s of when Mum let me clip real candles in holders to the tree but never let actually light them.  Wonder why?

My ancient fairy lights were down to 50% of their twinkle capacity and merely strangled the tree rather than illuminating it, so had to be disposed of along with the box of tricks and pulsating light show which gave Alphonse a headache if he stared at them long enough.  And finally, the last trinket in the box is always the Holographic Drum – a stark reminder that it’s my birthday soon and maybe this year I will have those drumming lessons I’ve been promising myself since having a crush on Stewart Copeland of The Police … remember them? You never know, if Plan A fails, I can always accompany Alphonse outside M&S for a bit of pocket money because it may be the only way to afford a new settee.

Other than to replace the awful sofa we have at the moment, there’s one resolution this year.  I had choices of course:

Be a better raven?  Difficult.

Spend less, save more perhaps?  Even more difficult.

Find a fragrance that doesn’t smell like a swamp?  Sorted – YSL Parisienne.

Run a marathon?  Not with my knees.

Winner by a mile and my resolution for 2013

“MAKE THIS YEAR COUNT FOR SOMETHING.”  I’ll keep you posted on progress.

Tip of the Blog:  Have you seen the BBC2 documentary about polar bears this week?  Some devious producer had locked Gordon Buchannan into a fortified glass/steel box while an 8ft female bear attempted to break in and eat him?  Frankly, I was cheering for the bear hoping she would get her teeth into somewhere tender because he spends more time on camera than any of his subjects, and it’s 8loody irritating.  Thankfully, the real stars of the show were Lyra’s two snoring cubs; perhaps they needed a bit of Vicks Vapour Rub to clear their little noses … ahhh.

Raven

Cocktails

Yes, I'm still here after the rigours of the festive season, writing away on my grand opus and making absolutely no progress on the ePublishing front.  Just as the rockets were exploding around the nest, I caught a sniffle and have been gifted with a stinking head cold thus causing my brain to be filled with cotton wool.  Short as this blog post may be, I feel a sense of impending happiness gazing forward to February 10th when we kick the Year of the Black Water Dragon out and replace it with the Year of the Black Snake.  Should fit in well with all the black stuff around, shouldn't I?

Tip of the Blog:  Do take it easy during the hybernation month of January won't you?  I'll be on Lemsip and Glenlivet cocktails, perhaps with a touch of ginger liqueur.  Cheers.

Raven

 

The Ironic Icon

As always with the week before Xmas lunch in the canteen, it's a whole seven days of extremes and mixed emotions; like Tuesday for example.  I nipped downstairs to collect the usual carrier bag of drugs from Pharmacy - not for personal use I might add - and someone thrust a hymn book in my hand saying,
"Here, you look like you can sing ... have this!"  It was the size of the OED and I was starting to get scared because every carol ever written would take all night and into 2013. In case I've not mentioned it before, my favourite and oft ignored carol is On Christmas Night All Christians Sing - it's right in my singing range as I'm the child of heavy smokers.
"I'm not in Gareth Malone's league you know.  I never made it to the school choir."  A blatant lie because I didn't feel like singing Silent Night with Matron nearby on the descant part.
"Never mind  ... you'll soon get the hang of it."  Thus I was frogmarched off to take part in an impromptu carol service for the patients; and it was lovely.  And they gave me a mince pie.
Spirits lifted, it made light work of a long shift.  Not so the next day when I trotted in to be told I was needed urgently in a Feedback Session.  Confused, I wondered had I been flat during O Little Town of Bethlehem or, as everyone does, missed out an entire verse of Hark the Herald Angels?
Imagine my stark horror at being shoved into a boiling meeting room with a group of assorted P's and R's - pharmacy, physios, phlebotomists and radiographers.  Plus one Raven perched on the end of the nurses.
After three of the most tedious Powerpoint presentations I've had to endure [nothing tops the Data Protection Act ... nothing] and like Dr Who's iconic stone angels, I was praying for the lights to go out when we finally got to what's laughingly called 'The Staff Satisfaction Survey'.  Now there's nothing wrong with these if they're honest but I suspected some employees had been slightly economical with the truth, especially as our happy little band scored bottom in the category relating to team work.  Our group leader asked for feedback and bravely, I ventured the following,
"Could it be that some people don't care about the impact their thoughtless actions have on others?"
"Such as?" asked the management.
"Well, someone borrowed the monitor cable from my PC yesterday for five hours without considering the impact it might have on my workload."  i.e. I couldn't do any work without elbowing a colleague out of the way.  The assembled company were horrified at such an act of inconsideration and vowed it would never happen again except that when I got back upstairs, ironically the vital cable had once again disappeared.
Earlier, I mentioned probably the most overused word of 2012 - Iconic.  There ... I did it again.
And every day on the BBC or in the press, some idiot who can't use a dictionary misuses the word in relation to music.  Sometimes I feel like ringing Points of View but to save on the cost of a call, let's clear up the muddle here and now.  Please checkout any website you like for icons - in fact, there's a museum of them in Clinton, Illinois featuring not one reverential painting of Led Zeppelin in concert.  However, this picture is of a car park in Leicester and the one I was forced to visit on Saturday as there was no room at the inn ... also I'd had an odd compulsion to visit the 8ody5h0p and wish them all greetings of the season.

I'd just dropped off a slab of 70% chocolate to keep Sandra going for an hour or so and spying my previous employer's logo I felt a glowing tide of nostalgia.  How fortunate then that Caraway and her partner blocked my way with a welcoming hug and, after a brief catch up in the aisle, the moment had passed.  Sometime later, I returned to the car park with soaked feathers and laden like a pack animal, so imagine my irritation when the pay machine refused my cash. Use my switch card?  Oh dear me no!
Eventually, we were ushered to an alternative machine by a bully in a high-vis jacket - I wonder if he does crowd control at weddings?  To appease the grumbles, he quipped,
"This is an ICONIC car park ... it's historic."  I was at school when it was built and it's an eyesore, even if it has been featured on Top Gear.  Imagine my joy when the bloke in front of me made light of the situation.
"Mate.  This thing you call a car park is a pile of 1970s pre-stressed concrete and NCP would do us all a favour if they sold it to the Army for target practise."
I was sniggering up my sleeve until I realised we'd all been charged an extra pound for queuing.  Anyone got the Army's phone number?

Tip of the Blog:  LindyLou, one of the lovely ladies I work with in The Bunker marked the end of her shift on Friday by proclaiming,
"I've got to go to Asda now ..." and promptly burst into tears.  Grateful there's only a few of us on Tuesday, I dared to ask,
"God ... how many are you catering for?"
"Three!"  And she carried on through half a box of tissues.
From the bottom of my heart, may your turkey be golden and glossy, bacon crisp and all the trimmings taste delightful.  Give the pudding to the birds, they need it.


Merry Christmas and a Very Happy New Year.
the Ravens.

Groundrush ...

Are we there yet?  Instinct tells me when the big day is within easy reach because there's not enough hours in the day to put the tree up and motor through an entire bag of pick'un'mix washed down with Prosecco.  Best of all, I get treated to my favourite movie of all time.  I spotted a raven in it this year making 'The Muppet Christmas Carol' surely the finest version of the works of Charles Dickens ever made; better even than Patrick Stewart's offering.  I particularly empathise with Miss Piggy as she lays into Michael Caine for being a scrooge; a defining moment for anyone who is overworked and underpaid.  I'm both [still] but this year I'll be home early, my beak in a box of Thornton's finest, instead of being kept prisoner in the Retail Cathedral, piling up mountains of body butter ready for Boxing Day.  I'm almost giddy with excitement.
In Job 2.1, I'm also giddy from the mad rush of patients desperate to get 'done' before the holidays begin.  And so, to make the journey from check-in to bed appear slick, professional and seamless, I've taken on the mantle of a tour guide asking an assortment of fascinating questions while we all wait for the lift.
"Been here before? Good journey? Oh the traffic's awful and the car park's bursting isn't it."  General chit chat is the best I can do really whereas patients reply with,
"I got here early just in case."  Pity, because your surgeon's still operating on the other side of town. "Will it take long?  Am I first on the list? Is my gall bladder supposed to be poking through my shirt?"  I counter this with a short explanation as to my totally non-medical nature and please could they ask a nurse or doctor shortly.  Once we've arrived in the patient's room, I adopt my 'airstewardess' stance from the 1980s and point out the view - sheep, fields, etc - the wardrobe, the television with remote, two over-wing exits and a bathroom at the rear.  And run for it.
Yesterday, I ran a bit too fast and skidded to a halt in front of a gorgeous chap waiting by my desk with his overcoat and scarf on.  In a boiling hospital, he had to be a weirdo.
"Can I help you?" I chirped, an octave higher than normal.  Honest, he's in George Clooney's ER league.
"Not really, unless you can tell me if my next patient's shaved and ready."  Luckily, one of the student nurses heard his question, stopped hoovering up the remains of a jumbo sausage roll and blustered,
"It's okay Professor, he's on the bed and ready to go."  Professor?  When did this bloke start practising medicine - puberty?  I spent the rest of my shift feeling about as groomed and fragrant as Hagrid after a long afternoon mucking out dragons.
There's loads of those in this neck of the woods too, let me tell you. My boss had asked me to help with the minutes of the MedSecs meeting - lunch is a tactical ploy and usually included to negate the impact of bad news - so I sat at the back with my notepad and a serious look as they all piled in, picked up plates and rugby tackled each other for first place in front of the buffet.  Not everyone, but there was a definite amount of fire breathing going on due to over-seasoned the spring rolls.  Worse, I managed to inhale a pineapple chunk and no amount of cheese could stop me coughing through a grim powerpoint presentation.  Why do managers do it?  More slides only make dragons eat more?  One lady, tapped me on the shoulder, hissing
"Don't I know you?"  I'd moved on to the chocolate truffle cake by now and wasn't going to be distracted by her blatant ploy to get a double helping.
"No, sorry, I'm new here."
"Then why are you taking the minutes and not one of us?" Barking ... all of them.

Tip of the Blog:  The Asda advert has been making headlines lately as has the John Lewis weepy with the melting snowman.  But like the Muppets, the best is Morrison's offering and a brilliant pi55-take of all the others, especially the scene with the mother perched on a pile of sprouts covering the kitchen table - genius.  Here, we eat sprouts all year round to keep our tolerance levels up, despite Alphonse moaning that he doesn't need folic acid as he's not having chicks any time soon.  Tough!

 Raven

A New Chapter

When I started writing Raven, my initial idea was to tell tales of the grinding boredom which shop work inflicts on the human psyche.  A veteran of three years in September 2011, I was looking down the barrel of Christmas, out-of-my-tree with worry over my ever-decreasing finances and distinctly disturbed about working for the monstrous management.  And so, with those 12 months behind me, I feel more at peace having received my P45 from them, but leaving was never going to be easy, was it? My big mistake was asking for my £30 bonus payment [in cosmetics of course] for the incredible contribution I made to September’s sales figures.  Imagine my inner joy when I received a swift refusal from the under-management, thus;

“You can’t have it.”  Unphased by her response, I turned down the volume on my attitude problem.

“Okay.  Thanks for checking.  Thought I’d ask … so bye.”  As I turned to go, she called me back because she’d gone to the trouble of printing out the official documentation regarding bonuses and was determined to make me read it.  Waving it in front of me, she said, 

“You have to take it within a month of leaving, so you’re too late.  It’s an HR rule.”  That makes it alright then?  I felt it was fair and right to air my views.

“I resigned on the fifth of October and as the fifth of November hadn’t happened yet, you could do it but … y’know what?  Don’t bother.”  She was still waving the bits of paper, no doubt trying to shoo me away from the til area where the queue was getting ugly.

“You don’t qualify.”

“I do but I’m so happy to be gone that I don’t care … I can’t eat it, wear it or clean the car with it, so what’s the big deal about a bit of crappy makeup or mascara that peels off in the rain?”  I left with a strange sense that Dame Anita wouldn’t have given a flying fluff about my bonuses either, or would the woman she sold her empire to … one of the richest women in the world apparently, and owner of 1’0r34l.  Ethical - my tail feathers.

Still, I’m free and quite enjoying Job2.1 a bit more and rapidly coming to know a whole new set of characters who qualify as ‘the management’.  Currently I’m standing guard over the daycare ward of a private hospital and gathering more paper cuts than Edward Scissorhands.  ‘Nuff said.  One of my co-workers is lazier than a sloth and known to all as Stephanotis, she thinks that manipulating others to do the parts of her job she can’t be ar5ed to carry out is great fun.  On Friday, I got a hail from the nurses’ station to get a barrow load of files from downstairs.  When I got into The Bunker, she was incredibly busy, shopping on Asos.com. So I enquired,

“Have you got two broken arms perhaps?”  This is a hospital, remember.

“No?” she chirped coupled with the big, innocent, stupid look which she must use on her mother to get out of doing everything.

“Well bring them up yourself next time because this is your job ... or we’ll be chatting to matron.”  It’s fun to sharpen my claws this way.

But I don’t like sharing a computer.  Ten years of my own super-fast, virus-free work laptops have obviously marked my card and I hadn’t realised quite how territorial I’d become.  When it comes to letting others root around on your desktop … well, to a geek like me, it’s like letting a stranger rifle your knicker drawer.   It’s not as bad as my mate Dulux though … he’s a blond Raven, having hit forty and gone straight through fair feathers to a really cool icy grey.  Anyway, about a decade ago now, he went to work for Rolls Royce at Derby as an IT project manager and had been perching there for a few months when he enquired about the date his laptop would arrive, so he could do some actual work, saying “… y’know, information technology stuff, a bit of managing a project or two.  I filled out the forms … in triplicate.”  His boss slapped him on the shoulder and said “Don’t worry sunshine, it usually takes about six months but you’re doing fine.”  So fine that he’d left and got a better job before the dreaded laptop arrived.

Tip of the Blog:  My final patient last night was a pleasant surprise – gorgeous and smiley – and as we skipped upstairs to the ward, I decided to polish up my chat-up lines.

“Been here before?” I enquired.

“No.”  He quipped with a wink.  “This is my first vasectomy.

Instead of saying something smart or funny like ‘it’s a snip!’ 

All I could manage was “Good for you.” in a strangled croak.

Raven

Where was I?

More like, who am I and what am I doing neglecting you all for so long?  There's loads to tell and what a sorry tale it is but it'll have to wait for another day.  I'm working full time for the first time in five years and I just can't fathom how I used to fit in 37.5 hours and a life as well.  Not so much Superwoman ... more Raven slumped in a heap in front of the tele, beak down and talons in the air. Still, I'm keeping pace with The Killing III and a bit of yoga should sort me out for the weekend.

Gird your loins, I'll be back.

Raven