There are quibbles at work which are going to get quibblier as the weeks go on. Due to all the governments ‘inclusion’ silliness, we are changing. From September we’re changing our name, and the staffing structure, plus we’re getting slightly different kids.
Morale?
It was already low, but this just makes it lower.
There may (or may not; we are still in the consultation period and so things might change) have to be redundancies, but I get the impression they’re hoping enough staff leave naturally and the jobs can be shared amongst those who remain. I have to make a decision; do I want to stay if it means more hours at a decreased level (and therefore a decreased wage, although my current wage may be frozen, perhaps)? There us no guarantee I would get the position anyways, although by all reckoning, the competition won’t be too taxing.
Or do I feel that the time is right to move on …
Maybe, if the right position is advertised.
Everybody is huddling in corners, whispering within their little cliques. There will no doubt be battles when the teachers all decide to go for the same position. And the cleaners! Bless them! I love our cleaners to bits. They’re both about one hundred years old (perfect for not quite wanting to clean around the computers in case they break them) with failing eyesight (great for spotting those elusive cobwebs) and minds that are best left in the gutter.
They’re cutting our hours, grumbled Naughty Nan.
We won’t have time to hoover every room, moaned Irish Eyes. And you know what the boss is like, she continued shaking her head in despair.
To top it all off, the kids are (all) on Mephedrone, cOs iTz LeGaL, innit. Idiots.
At night my bedroom makes strange sounds. It whirs and buzzes, gloops and schniffles, and bomps and sloshes. Occasionally it beeps too.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Poor Tabatha-Cat must be wondering why we prefer having a machine in our room to having her in there. I miss sleeping with her curled around my head, but she’d only clambour over the Peritoneal Dialysis machine, spreading her fur and germs around.
*sad face*
We have no name for the machine. It worked for two nights, then stopped working. Blokey went back on haemodialysis for two sessions. Now he’s back on PD (since Sunday night) and [*fingers crossed*] it appears to be working swimmingly.
*touches wood, quickly*
It might stop working again because his catheter may be in the wrong position.
Still, at least he’s alive. When people ask me how he is I quite often say, ‘Well, he’s still alive!’. It throws them, and I find that amusing. I am a queen b(ee) with an itch. There are so many people who really don’t understand that if he wasn’t having dialysis he would probably have about ten days to live. And that’s a good estimate.
*sigh*
You wouldn’t believe it but I am looking on the bright side. Really. Even though I loathe Monty and all things Python …
