Exorcising Demons (in more ways than one)
2010-04-03, 5:10 p.m.
Lots of various bits and pieces to tell you about, so another rather disjointed entry, dear friends. If I could find time to update a bit more often, then I�m sure I could stick to the �one topic per entry� principle but�.hey�I can�t. Oooh, tho it IS getting ever more likely that I will have a bit more time on my hands soon as this went in the post today (censored to protect the guilty, naturally):Dear (Crazy Mental Boss Lady)
It is with a certain amount of trepidation and after a great deal of soul searching, that I have decided not to renew my contract with (Old Lady Central) for another year.
Whilst I have been committed to the ethos of (My project), I do not feel that I have been adequately supported in my role. Furthermore, I do not feel that the atmosphere at (Old Lady Central) is a healthy one, nor conducive to harbouring harmonious working relationships.
Bad practice is rife and there is a great deal of disparity in your staff. Those who are hard-working and dedicated are severely overstretched while others are allowed to coast along, contributing little to the overall effectiveness of the organisation and further perpetuating the feelings of unrest amongst their co-workers.
I realise that my departure will leave something of a void, and in an effort to not have this result in even more work for those who may already be working at full capacity, I am therefore giving approximately two months notice, rather than the required one month and will be leaving (at the latest) on 28th May. I hope that this will give you sufficient time to be able to recruit a replacement and for me to effect a professional and comprehensive handover period. I will be able to produce a fairly conclusive manual on the (My project) programme � if I am allowed sufficient time to be able to do so � which I think would be invaluable to my successor.
I also understand that budgetary constraints will have a bearing on this situation and would, therefore, be willing to conduct at least part of that final handover process on a voluntary basis to alleviate some of the financial strain on the organisation.
In the circumstances, I think it would not be appropriate for me to accept the incremental increase in my pay, of 10p/hour, which you offered to me on Tuesday (Yes, she really did. 10p/hour. That�s about 15�, my American cousins.). As far as I am concerned, my rate of pay can remain at its current rate until I leave your employ.
When I leave (this disorganised madhouse) I intend to spend a great deal more of my time with my family and doubt that I will return to full-time work in the foreseeable future. I will, however, be offering myself as a freelance Facilitator for (My project) throughout Hampshire, Dorset, West Sussex and Surrey and so can continue to be able to help to support (your motley bunch of miscreants)in their excellent work throughout the region.
I have not discussed any of the above with anyone in the office as I thought it important that you were the first to know of my intentions, rather than the last. (Slaveboy, Sharon and Bev are going to kill me as I know you�ll be giving them the Gestapo-esque third degree � you psycho bully-bitch � but they REALLY don�t know anything.). I am on holiday next week and so will not be available to talk to you about any of the above until I am back in the office on 13th April (Don�t even fucking well THINK of ringing me at home about this or you will find that I wont come back at all next week and you will be RIGHT in the shit)
I appreciate that this action will come as something of a shock to you (as you are completely unaware of anything apart from your own selfish ego massaging) and assure you of my continued utmost professionalism and dedication until I leave (kicking up my heels like a chirpy cockney in a Disney movie)
Sincerely (because it�s rude to finish a letter �and you totally brought this on yourself�)
Stepfie Stepfordtart-Geetardude
I went to the Isle of Wight�
�on Wednesday, scouting for venues for the next programme of courses for my project. I hate the Isle of Wight, having lived there for a whole summer when I was about 19 � working in a hotel for minimum wage and sharing one attic room in the hotel with four other girls, none of whom I previously knew and none of whom were interested in being even superficially friendly towards me. Including divorce, deaths of close ones, protracted illnesses and other terrible episodes, the three months spent on the Isle of Wight were truly the most miserable period of my life. I really prefer to not talk about that time at all and I�ve not been back to the island for about 25 years so maybe it was time to exorcise some demons.
The journey proved to be quite boring so I scribbled out little notes throughout the day, thinking I�d then have time to turn them into some kind of travelogue type thingy. Failed miserably at that, of course, but here�s what I scribbled, anyway.
Sitting in the rain, waiting for the car ferry, listening to a soundtrack of the beeping of reversing Somerfield lorries.
An undignified scramble of seniors in dun-coloured car-coats, vying for a seat facing the front windows � the panes of which had been turned into privacy glass by the bear-claw tracks of the sideways rain.
Even though it was 10am, the bar was open. The irrefutable attraction of a pint of price-inflated 1664 and a pack of mini Cheddars still wasn�t enough to move me from my vinyl banquette.
On the left-hand side, the QE2 terminal, on the right the surprise of a glimpse of beach. A stretch of brownish sand, a shitty skid mark of a stripe between grey-green sea and muddy scrubland. Then a boatyard � a forest of yacht masts looking forlorn and miserable in the drizzle.
I think it was Hythe, as we soon passed the pier where the terminally lazy can catch a train along its length to the land after disembarking the little ferryboat.
Chugging past the Victorian splendour of the tower at the country park on one side and the refinery (momentarily reminding me of the power plant in the Simpsons for some reason) on the other.
A studenty-looking girl (straggly hair, filthy trainers), reading a teen vampire novel � too far away to see which one but I�m guessing at a Twilight vibe. Remarkably for a slightly built girl, she was toting a backpack of such enormity that it looked for all the world like she�d made a slipcover, in zippered black nylon, for a VW Beetle.
Another pier, or a pipeline, or a bit of both (its hard to see) where the MV Ceylon out of Singapore and the Merion Glory out of Majuro* unloaded or loaded whatever it is they bring to or take from the good people of wherever � containers? No one on deck and no signs of cargo. No barrels of rum nor bolts of silk. No spices from far-off lands � not even packaged neatly into jars irritatingly to small-necked to take a teaspoon.
* I had to Google Majuro as I�d never heard of it and I thought it might be a place I might want to go to. Its here: 
Some kind of fort on a sandbar � the beach huts tell me its Calshot but I�ve never seen that fort from the land � then we�re out to the cross piece of the T and the Isle of Wight stretches before me. A panorama of misery. The weather had picked up a bit, the sea now yellowish with the glints of watery sunshine upon it. I see a church, some hotels; stuccoed houses in pastel colours (pink mostly, or cream, but here and there a rebellious duck-egg blue and lots of yellowish brick � windowed blocks of rancid butter on the platter of East Cowes) � a malevolent Balamory (I did find a link for that, for overseas visitors, but the sheer chirpiness of it made me feel a bit nauseous. Google it if you must)
The man in the car behind had the image of a complicated overhead strip light reflected in his windscreen. As he leant back in his seat, waiting to disembark, it looked for all the world like he was wearing a huge illuminated headdress of the type some alien emperor might be seen wearing in a particularly low-budget episode of Doctor Who.
At Lugleys of Cowes I stopped for some lunch. Scalding black coffee with a crema so thick I could have sliced it off and a toasted ciabatta with chicken, smoked applewood cheese and fat slices of juicy tomato. The squashy leather sofa, the polyester ficus trees, the smooth jazz grooves wafting over the loudspeakers�..For a moment I was right there, in Kenny G�s front room.
�.the chain link ferry � not unlike that used to transport the Beaudelaire orphans to Aunt Josephine�s house on the shores of Lake Lachrymose�
The MV Grand Champion out of Panama � so massive and painted such a shade of blue that, as I had lost my bearings a bit with the euphoria of being nearly home, and because I didn�t have my glasses on, I mistook for the Southampton branch of Ikea.
And that , dear friends, was my trip to the Isle of Wight. Nothing bad happened. I did contemplate going back to the place I used to work at but I just couldn�t face it. This was good though (and it�s free if you happen to be in the area) but don�t bother with this � it was horrible.
In a moment of perversity stupidity, I wore one of these bras out last night. My boobs are absolutely KILLING me today. I think the two events may be linked. Silly, silly Stepfie. (I looked hot, tho!)
Next time, let�s talk about liquidised biscuits. I�ve got some of this stuff just BEGGING to be eaten out of the jar with a big spoonexperimented with.
Later
S
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