spillage
I discovered this week that I may not be getting my training in how to sit properly until next year. I might be dead of not sitting properly by then!
I went to a 'welcome day' in Watford, that place that you're either north of or south of but which does actually exist in its own right, I was amused to discover. We were asked that difficult question: why are we here? What special quality did everyone around the table share that made them ripe for selection by the National Blood Service? We never got to the bottom of this. Were we all secret vampires? High-functioning alcoholics? They are very picky, after all, even when it comes to donors. You'd think they'd be grateful to have your blood, but no, there's all these conditions. You aren't allowed to give blood if you've had sex 'in exchange for money or drugs'. How are you supposed to remember a thing like that?
Lunch was a seafood crumble. I must admit I was expecting a few scraps of white fish and the occasional withered prawn. But there were scallops! Big ones! I was impressed. Despite rejoicing in the name of 'The Mangerie' the restaurant there is staffed by enormous old-school dinner ladies, who have been there forever and by now are doubtless on (such are the NHS pay increments) about 70k a year. 'Who's the vegetarian?', bellowed one such formidable creature. The solitary young man who had unwisely gone for that option advanced trembling towards the front of the queue, clearly expecting the meal to be thrown in his face rather than handed to him on a plate.
Of course they wouldn't have done that - it would have been a violation of health and safety. Back upstairs, we had to consider the case of 'Alex', who spilled coffee on the stairs at work; of his/her colleague 'Jo', who saw the spillage, and did nothing: and of 'Sam' who slipped on it, and fell. We split off into groups to discuss what the consequences would be for each participant in this drama. The ramifications proved to be considerable. By the end of the session we had a possible murder charge, and several key government figures were being investigated. We moved on to fraud, another popular pastime in the NHS, apparently.
At work I got to do some filing. Not only sliding things into a steel cabinet but even making up the pockets the stuff was kept in myself! This was hardcore filing, everything I'd imagined in my fevered dreams of office life. My cup ranneth over.
In case anyone from health and safety is reading this, that's a metaphor.
I went to a 'welcome day' in Watford, that place that you're either north of or south of but which does actually exist in its own right, I was amused to discover. We were asked that difficult question: why are we here? What special quality did everyone around the table share that made them ripe for selection by the National Blood Service? We never got to the bottom of this. Were we all secret vampires? High-functioning alcoholics? They are very picky, after all, even when it comes to donors. You'd think they'd be grateful to have your blood, but no, there's all these conditions. You aren't allowed to give blood if you've had sex 'in exchange for money or drugs'. How are you supposed to remember a thing like that?
Lunch was a seafood crumble. I must admit I was expecting a few scraps of white fish and the occasional withered prawn. But there were scallops! Big ones! I was impressed. Despite rejoicing in the name of 'The Mangerie' the restaurant there is staffed by enormous old-school dinner ladies, who have been there forever and by now are doubtless on (such are the NHS pay increments) about 70k a year. 'Who's the vegetarian?', bellowed one such formidable creature. The solitary young man who had unwisely gone for that option advanced trembling towards the front of the queue, clearly expecting the meal to be thrown in his face rather than handed to him on a plate.
Of course they wouldn't have done that - it would have been a violation of health and safety. Back upstairs, we had to consider the case of 'Alex', who spilled coffee on the stairs at work; of his/her colleague 'Jo', who saw the spillage, and did nothing: and of 'Sam' who slipped on it, and fell. We split off into groups to discuss what the consequences would be for each participant in this drama. The ramifications proved to be considerable. By the end of the session we had a possible murder charge, and several key government figures were being investigated. We moved on to fraud, another popular pastime in the NHS, apparently.
At work I got to do some filing. Not only sliding things into a steel cabinet but even making up the pockets the stuff was kept in myself! This was hardcore filing, everything I'd imagined in my fevered dreams of office life. My cup ranneth over.
In case anyone from health and safety is reading this, that's a metaphor.
posted by martin at 2:45 PM
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