A Work Rant.

rant, Work

I work for my dad. I used to work in the warehouse, and now I work in the office. I didn’t have to work for him, I had a fine job – but he offered me another one. He needed my help. Business was busy, I had worked there before in my summers, and he needed someone who knew what they were doing. From this experience, I give one piece of advice: don’t join the family business.

Today was a hard day. It was stressful. A couple of mistakes that I had made a week ago came back to bite me, our courier company was doing a sh*t job and customers were upset. It was just one-of-those-days.

Eventually, it all came to a head. With the help of a colleague, I managed to work things out; but still, the tears came.

I’m a bit of a crier. I cry when I’m sad, I cry when I’m happy. I cry when I’m stressed and especially when I’m angry! And I was angry with myself. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do, how hard I work, how much of everyone else’s filing I organise, how often I hoover, how many teas I make. The second a mistake is made, I’m made to feel incompetent. They don’t let me try to fix it, but pass it on to someone ‘better’. Someone busier. Thus adding to the negative opinion of me.

People obviously think that I only have a job because of who my daddy is. They think that the moment they “finally speak their minds”, I’ll go running to him to complain about all of my nasty work “mates”.

“Now, you can go to your father about this if you like, if you think I’ve upset you…”

Rather than just telling me what they think, they bottle it up until one day they decide to give me a half hour lecture. A lecture about why my scribbly doodles that I draw whilst I’m stuck on hold for half an hour are the reason I make mistakes. About how the occasional check of my phone is the reason that I forget things. They disregard the fact that one gets daily calls from her son, and the other her boyfriend. They disregard the fact that one does her food shop from the office, and the other orders clothes from New Look.

They don’t seem to care that after a single measly week of training really isn’t enough to teach someone a job. They snap when I ask questions, and then are surprised when I make mistakes.

But what can I say? If I was working for anyone else, I would say what I pleased (within reason). If I was working for anyone else, I could go to my supervisor. If I was working for anyone else, I guess it would be easier.

I can’t complain about work when I get home like any other normal person; I can’t just tell my parents that I’ve had a really hard day because Jane Doe was a total bitch. I can’t tell them that I’m stressed tonight because That Company forgot to deliver half of the orders, and I was having to deal with angry customers. I just can’t.

Sometimes I just can’t carry on.

The weekend is just on the horizon – really!

blog, nanowrimo, Work

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Do any of you feel like all that you ever do is work? That all of your time is sucked into a never ending working week; the weekend never seems to arrive, and the nights fly past in the blink of an eye? You’re too tired to dream at night, which in return gives you the feeling of sleeplessness. When you do dream, it’s just…weird. Weariness is your companion.

I’ll bet that a lot of you are lucky enough to have varied jobs. Perhaps you work in a school where something new happens every day! You’re doing something you love, you’re inspiring young people, you’re doing good. Maybe you work in the media. That seems like it would be a rather enjoyable job. You radio presenters all sound like you’re having a whale of a time in your little D.J. booths, laughing away with the latest celeb that you’re interviewing. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

You are lucky.

Some of you will be just like me. We work in a factory, the lowest of jobs. In despatch. The most monotonous of work. Picking. Packing. Labelling. Repeat. What good are we doing? You’re colleagues are real bundles of joy, complaining about every little thing with their double standards.

Who’s in charge of health and safety around here? Can’t they get us a bloody ladder that doesn’t f•••ing feel like it’s gonna break on me??

Oh, so now we have to wear high vis’? And hard hats? I don’t want to wear those!

And their wonderful break time conversations. Perhaps, like me, you sit alone at lunch. You don’t fit in with that lot; they don’t like you and you don’t like their conversations. About women. About how women are incompetent. About how women’s feelings are irrelevant. How women are good for nothing – except for a good f–! Oh.

Maybe you want to have a real conversation, an intelligent conversation -one that doesn’t involve porn, sex or drugs. Perhaps you want to have your beliefs challenged, you want to learn something new, you want to expand your mind. But you can’t.

You live for the evenings – the short, short evenings; you live for the always distant weekends. But they never come for long.