Impossible Job

Last week, my boss asked me to produce a professional looking ten page job profile for a potential new appointment.

He provided me with an example from another employer, and asked me to use the same format.

He wanted me to find some suitable photographs “online” to use.

This was all outside of his skillset.

And mine.

He wanted it “by tomorrow” (Wednesday), and gave me the text he’d written for the first page, as well as the headings he wanted to use for the remaining pages.

The formatted example he’d given me was a pdf. I was very pleased to discover that Adobe now provides a free pdf to Word conversion, which certainly made my job easier.

It was easy enough to find photographs, of course, but not so much photographs that are free to use. My boss later told me he wasn’t worried about that, as he “wasn’t using them for commercial purposes.”

The next day (Wednesday), my boss emailed to say he would send me the final nine pages of text he still hadn’t written “tomorrow morning” (Thursday), and that “we” would “populate” the template document then.

While I was eating lunch the next day (Thursday), his email arrived leaving me two hours to put the whole thing together. I didn’t think it would be enough time, but just got on with it.

Two hours later, I still had two pages to do, but had to collect my kids from nursery and school, make their tea (or dinner, as they call it), and get them in the bath. I managed to finish it later while they watched TV.

My boss was very pleased, although he said he didn’t expect anyone would actually see it.

Pay Rise

I haven’t had a pay rise since April 2017.

Taking into account the cost of living increases year on year, and especially in the last year or two, I’ve effectively taken a pay cut every year.

To be fair, I was thankful to have a job at all during and after covid.

Thanks to Kate Morley’s historical UK inflation rates and price conversion calculator, I now know how much I should be earning if my pay had kept up with inflation.

Community Cats

Just around the corner from my lad’s school by the canal is a cul-de-sac which is home to some “community cats”.

Having spoken to a few of the people who live there, it seems that none of the seven or eight cats and kittens have homes or owners, but are looked after by the people who live there.

So they’re not strays, but they’re not feral, either. They’re community cats.

These cats have been around for as long as I can remember (which admittedly isn’t so long these days), but it’s only in the last few weeks that they have become of growing interest to my lad and some of his friends on their way to and from school.

What started off as simply “aw, look there’s a cat”, has now become a financial investment in daily supplies of cat food, and extra time in the morning and afternoon to stop, feed and stroke Tab, Abby, Popcorn, Tiny, Smoky, Toffee and one or two others I can’t remember the names of.

I made the mistake of sharing a few photos of these cats with my cat obsessed mother, who was very upset that they don’t have warm, dry homes and owners who overfeed them with specially bought and cooked fish. I’ve tried to reassure her that they look healthy (shiny coats), well-fed and looked after.

Free Palestine

There seems to be a co-ordinated drive to obliterate Palestine, and Palestinians, from the map.

I find it very upsetting that my government, and many other “Western” governments are wholeheartedly supporting Israel’s genocidal “self-defence” narrative.

Nothing justifies carpet-bombing innocent people - mostly women and children.

Nothing justifies cutting off their supplies of electricity, water, food, fuel.

The sadistic Netanyahu told Palestinians in Gaza to leave, then bombed the crossing into Egypt while they tried to do so.

These are war crimes.

Now, our fascist government is attempting to outlaw any expression of support for the people of Gaza and Palestine.

Fully supported and enabled by our fascist “opposition” party.

The Labour Mayor of London helped to spread what turned out to be fake news about an alleged anti-Semitic attack on a Jewish-owned shop. Known liar Luciana Berger, MP, did the same. As did countless other “sensible, adult centrists”.

It’s not anti-Semitic to support the people of Palestine in their long struggle for freedom from Israel’s oppression.

Play Street

We used to play in the street outside our home as kids growing up in the 70s. In rural Lincolnshire. Of course, it wasn’t a main road, it was the road on our council estate. Pretty much everyone had a car, and many of the houses had their own garage.

In London, or Greater London, it’s generally not safe for kids to play in the street, although we’re lucky where we are that our little cul-de-sac can double-up as a relatively safe enough play area most of the time.

The road next to us is an HGV Access Road, thanks to our local ward councillor and current council leader.

It’s definitely NOT safe for kids to play in at all.

Not until the Water Company came along. For the past two or three weeks, they have closed part of the road where my sons’ friends live to clear the pipes of wet wipes, sanitary products, fat and oil.

They’ve dug a massive hole in the road, which I’ve told my nine year old is The Pit of Tartarus. It’s all barricaded off, with heavy machinery, waste skips and various bits of equipment.

So the road is now a no through road, with access only for residents and deliveries.

My kids and their friends have really enjoyed playing out in the street whenever they can, thanks also to our “Indian Summer”.

Of course, there are plenty of drivers who ignore (or don’t see?) the signs telling them the road is closed, and drive down it anyway. My job was mostly to tell them, “No, you can’t drive on the pavement. Can’t you see there are kids playing? Plus, it’s a pavement. This isn’t the Wild West!”

Fortunately, everyone was reasonable enough when challenged to back away, turnaround and drive around following the “diverted traffic” signs.

Thankfully, my job was made redundant by the older kids in the group, who took it upon themselves to relieve me of my onerous duties. They barricaded the pavements with spare cones, and now they marshall the traffic. Much more effective!

Class

Thinking about Maths at school, got me thinking about the origin and meaning of class.

It’s a classic word, and means so many different things depending on the context in which it’s used.

Its Roman origin relates to the dividing up of society, or groups of people for war or military objectives.

My Latin teacher at school was obsessed with lining up the desks and chairs at the end of each lesson.

“Caecilius pater est” is the only Latin I can remember.

We rebelled, and persuaded our headteacher to teach us Classics in Translation instead. That was fun. Reading, and learning all about ancient Greek philosophy and mythology.

Distraction

It’s easy to get distracted.

My nine year old told his mum last night that he was so distracted by thoughts in his head at school that the teacher gave him a blank piece of paper and a pen to “download” everything in his mind.

All he could think about was Super Mario and Nintendo.

Well, it was Maths.

I always liked Maths at school. Mainly because there was no homework, or writing, or revision to do. Either I knew it or I didn’t. And I mostly did, up until A Levels.

My “Pure Maths” teacher told me I would never amount to anything. I guess he was right about that.

My “Applied Maths” teacher tried to make lessons more memorable by telling us a story about a man who grew jellies in his garden. I guess he was right about that.

I got a B grade in O Level Maths. If I’d actually made any kind of effort I could probably have got an A. Things could have been oh so different!

The Swimmer

My nine year old is on week three of his school swimming lessons.

Prior to the first lesson, he was very anxious about getting his hair wet, and getting his nose under the water. This, despite the fact that he absolutely loved the sea and the pool on our holiday last month (and last year, and the year before that).

We bought him a swimming cap, which everyone has to wear in any case. He’s got massive natural afro hair, so the first three swimming caps we bought were too small.

He was very anxious about putting on his swimming cap for the lessons. I said I would help him, as I would be there, but of course, that never happened as they all just marched straight into the changing rooms leaving me alone with my coffee-free café.

Fortunately, one of the teaching staff helps him with his cap.

So he keeps his hair dry. And after the second lesson last week, he came home and informed us that:

  • he put his nose under the water and survived
  • he wants to go swimming at the weekend
  • he wants a swimming “noodle”.

Human Shield

The school asked for a parent to volunteer to accompany the children to their weekly swimming class.

They said I could sit in the café and drink coffee. No swimming required. I volunteered.

I’m basically a fourth chaperone, in addition to the three teaching staff. I simply accompany the children to their swimming class, and back.

The class teacher gave me the two page risk assessment to read on the first morning, and I’ve taken it upon myself to stand either at the back of the line of kids, or in the middle, depending on where there is a gap of supervising adults. I try to act as a human shield on zebra crossings.

That’s it.

While the kids are having their swimming lesson, I sit in the adjacent café (which is permanently closed, by the way) with my distraction-free writing device. I get an hour a week now to write in peace. It’s wonderful.

Bolognese!

Last week, we had a new front door fitted.

That morning, I took it upon myself to prepare a bolognese before the doormen arrived so that we didn’t need to get in each other’s way, and so that we had something to eat for lunch for the next few days.

I make my bolognese in a 12" frying pan and cover it with a grease splatter fine mesh to let it cook slowly for a few hours. When the doormen arrived, that’s exactly what my bolognese was doing.

What I didn’t realise, until it was too late, is that the dust from their drilling and general doormen work was settling on the stove top in front of my bolognese on the back of the stove.

This was brought to my attention by my wife, who was already in a state of being very upset by the new door hanging to the right and not the left like her old door.

I inspected the bolognese and the splatter mesh cover carefully for signs of white paint dust similar the to very evident white paint dust sitting on top of the stove.

I honestly couldn’t see anything, although the bolognese did have quite a sheen (although this was after I’d just added some milk to it).

Anyway, my wife refused to eat it, so I had no choice, really, but to eat all of it over the next four days.

If anything, it tasted a bit spicier than normal, not in a bad way, and I have not grown any extra fingers, yet.