ALTER EGOS

One of my favourite past times is people watching. Not in a freaky, bunny boiling stalker kind of way you understand. Just in a friendly, busybody kind of way.

So, being in a new job with completely new people has been fascinating. The honeymoon period is drawing to a close now I think because the winning smiles are slipping off faces like butter off a warm spud.
It would appear that people can only sustain an image of themselves for a limited time. The duration depends perhaps on the energy and focus of the individual. I come to this conclusion having considered the actions and comments of others around me.

Take Mrs Alabama for instance. She calls herself Mrs although she has never been married. She wishes to be known as Agnes although her real name is Myrtle. She refused categorically to give her National Insurance number to the admin officer because it was 'wholly private'.

Mrs Alabama has hair like an afghan hound but lacks the associated grace of movement. This, she has decided, should be remedied by a personal trainer based at a former army barracks - complete with an authentic army assault course. Thus, every Wednesday she takes her wafting hair and chubby body over the bridge and far away to be shouted at by an ex squaddie with issues. I'm not sure how her hair copes with assault course trauma but the rest of her has had three sprains and a broken bone since she decided to 'get fit'. All this at the tender age of 64 and three quarters - nat ins details notwithstanding.

In addition to her daytime job, Agnes has a nice little sideline going. On evenings other than Wednesday she runs a website for clan related merchandise. She confided to a colleague that she aims to corner the US market in tartan kitch because 'Americans will buy anything with a clan name on it'. Amid a profusion of tea towels, fridge magnets and assorted other teuchter tat she plots world domination in tartan bibs and rompers. [ Ye gods ]

Mrs Alabama isn't alone in her eccentricity however. Mrs Louisiana, who is genuinely married, spends her day rooting through boxes searching for treasure such as fake fur stoles and straw hats. These she wears during tea breaks. Don't ask me why. She's retiring soon and that's probably for the best.

I could fill the entire blogger website with further details but I'll stop for now and return to this shortly. It's a rich seam to mine...

Stress busting

Sorry for the hiatus but I'm back firing on all cylinders - witter wise anyway.

This post is on the topic of stress and how it is managed. Or not. Different types of stress trigger different reactions in me. Good stress is usually work related and involves deadlines and challenge. Bad stress always involves family or money issues.
Recently though, I've had occasion to witness the effects stress has on others.

As a new manager, it's been fascinating and frankly bewildering to see the staff freaking out as deadlines approach. When I was in their position I managed my time, knowing that these deadlines lay ahead. Work had to be prioritised and completed accordingly. These people don't seem to work that way.
Ohhhhhhhhhhh no.
Their preferred technique appears to be: leave everything to the last minute and then spin feverishly on the spot, creating a maelstrom of A4 paperwork in the process. I've honestly never seen anything like it.

Part of me thinks - what's wrong with these people? and the other part thinks - what have the previous managers been doing all year? Or rather not doing!

For the past three weeks people have been sprinting past me, panic stricken and sweaty [I'll come back to the sweaty bit later in the blog]as they hurtle towards heart attacks or some well hidden alcohol. I've tried to help the most beleaguered ones who really are so young they don't know any better but the more 'experienced' staff should know better.

Having asked if there are problems at home adding to the stress, I'm assured not. Why then has everything been left till now? These deadlines are annual and should come as a surprise to no-one. The newbies should be warned of them as part of their induction and the older hands should be familiar with the whole process. It's really NOT rocket science.

Anyway, the deadline has passed and I'll be in tomorrow to see if anything has changed i.e. if the wild eyed terror has gone and the blood pressure has dropped back to normal.

Speaking of blood pressure, one member of staff told me her doc wants her to have an ecg etc because her BP is so high. She thinks it is entirely due to her workload but I suspect her sumo sized body mass on a 5'5" skeleton might have something to do with it. And here, dear reader, we return to the sweaty reference made earlier.

My line manager wanted me to tackle this member of staff about body odour. The room she occupies has its own distinctive scent which would benefit from a Glade plug in or ten. Apparently my boss took exception to the odour when the staff member left a vapour trail behind her in the boss's office. In the nicest possible way I told my boss that her interpersonal skills far outweighed mine and that she should tackle that sensitive issue in her own impeccable way. Exit me, chuckling.

The boss took it well and I'm hoping that she doesn't deal with her stress by giving me all the literally stinky jobs she hates. If so, I may visit my doc and asked to be signed off - due to stress. :0)

Yikes!

This Witter, dear reader, very nearly didn't make it to the blog. Some random eejit decided to hack into my wee nook of the Net to play silly beggars with my welcome flag. Instead of the Saltire, there fluttered a green and yellow one. Had I been more worldly wise I might have paid more attention. Couldn't say which nationality the flag represented, didn't look long enough. Instead I decided to return things to normal. Other than the flag change everything seemed fine.

Not so! As soon as I clicked "remove" my laptop went nuts.

Suddenly the screen was flooded with overlapping error messages and my brain was flooded with every horror story gleefully uttered by IT geeks. Luckily, I have my own resident techy to help me out and a few key taps later we were back in business. [Thank you dear] Hopefully this episode will have been the worst I have to encounter but if this blog disappears into the ether or lies dormant for too long then the chances are I will have been the victim of a more serious attack.

Meanwhile, what else has been happening in the world of Witterdom? Quite a lot actually.
A follower of this blog has trauchled her way up and down a mountain for charity. She was last up and then last down apparently which must have been a bit lonely but 10 out of 10 for consistency and perseverance say I. The mere thought of clambering up a Munro makes me break into a cold sweat, not to mention a packet of chocolate digestives. I am full of admiration [and biscuits]. Especially when her Yikes were accompanied by a fair number of Ouch, Ooh and Ows.
This act of charity - the climb, not the scoffing of sweetmeats - followed the tragic early demise of a friend and colleague. This, for me, is the best kind of remembrance. A shared recognition and celebration of someone's life with a sizeable donation to assist others afflicted by the disease. A group effort, a load of laughs and a sense of positive closure. Great stuff.

On an entirely different note, I've been encountering all sorts of new faces and characters recently. Some appealing, some not so appealing - all interesting. My new role has its ups and downs. I was asked by my boss how best to approach a member of staff with a major BO problem. Ummmm... Usual, subtle tactics had notably failed to register with the hygiene challenged individual so what next? Short of hosing down this person with Dettol we're not sure. Thinking caps on people.

Finally, a completely familiar face quite astounded me yesterday by declaring an interest in following my lead. This person detests change wherever possible and yet is seriously considering applying for a new job. Not more money, not more perks, further from home and probably longer hours and yet this person is very tempted. You could have knocked me down with a feather! This person admits to being nervous but fancies a fresh challenge.

So all in all, there are lots of Yikes! going on in Witterdom but perhaps we all need a little scare now and again.

Things to make you go hmmm... Part II

Reader, I am in a quandary and am using this blog as a means to crystallise my thinking. Having begun to settle into my new role I find myself once more considering the option to move house. This dilemma has come about following an egg-lobbed-at-window incident.
Now, His Nibs believes this incident to be purely co-incidental but I'm not so sure. It may be that his one time collaring of one of the local neds continues to generate ill feeling among the Valley mafia but perhaps not. We may be the unlucky victims of a random act of juvenile eggery but again perhaps not. The prospect of endlessly having to sluice egg splat from glass is not appealing.[Egg is remarkably diligent in the mess making department.]I'm not a fan of housework at the best of times so extra is not a welcome direction.
Some time ago His Nibs and I toyed with the idea of buying a particularly attractive, roomy and clearly missile-free new house. It would mean a significantly increased monthly outlay and sending the retirement deadline into our dotage. We decided that, on balance, it made sense to stay put until the bonny boys had left home and we could downsize.
It seems however that the boys will be staying with us for another couple of decades. Sigh.
Plus, it transpires that the Twins Next Door are about to invade my workaday world. It's bad enough that they can be heard, through our shared wall, joyously leaping from wardrobes at 2 am or testing the echo factor of the close until the harling itself commits suicide.
I've cheerfully tossed balls, frisbees and shuttlecocks back over the fence but dread the day they acquire one of those mega trampolines and I see their wild eyed faces bobbing up and down while I try to hide under a judiciously tilted garden parasol.

It's only a matter of time. And when that happens it won't just be the harling lying limp in the close...

So, dear reader, do we sell our souls for a piece of domestic bliss or wait in an affordable home, subject to human shriek fiends and random poultry missiles?

It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing...

I may have mentioned somewhere that our garden is a work in progress. That's not quite accurate. Our garden had a major revamp in 2005 and looked fab for about two years. Then Life took over somewhat and the garden was left to its own devices for a bit.
As a consequence we have a wilderness garden of David Attenborough proportions. Billions of birds zip about chasing the trillions of insects zipping about the gazillions of weeds. It's all very eco friendly and tie dyed looking. I wouldn't be surprised if a flock of hairy druids or long lost hippies were lurking in the shrubbery.

Once or twice we've had a bash at weeding, digging, sorting and tidying but I think now even the worms are sniggering at our feeble attempts. It's all very embarrassing. Where once our garden was the envy of the neighbours, they may now grow 40 ft Leylandii simply to block out the mayhem we've created. Can't say I blame them.

In an effort to reinvigorate my drive to enhance our 'outdoor living space' I've decided to treat myself to a garden swing. In my head I see a wooden porch at sunset with a long cool drink to sip as I gently swing upon comfy cushions and a handmade quilt. [I may have been overly influenced by The Waltons as a child and sadly, the coal bings of Fife are not quite the snowy topped mountains of Virginia.] Thus, I've been wandering happily through garden centres in search of The One. By this, I mean my dream swing seat.

To some extent I've felt a bit like Goldilocks. Some swing seats were too large, others too small, yet others too ugly. [There are some bizarre cushion patterns out there in the big bad world of horticulture and leisure you know. Some truly migraine inducing designs - not good.]
I had my heart set on a stylish but sturdy wooden model but the price tag was colossal. I should have been able to buy the whole damn porch with house and mountain thrown in for the price asked.
Recovering my composure, I moved on to another wooden, delightfully rustic swing seat. This one was compact and bijou although the price was only marginally smaller than the original. I moved on again.
With each reduction in cost came a step away from the dream. Eventually I considered the metal framed models. Yuck. Most of them looked like engineering homework projects fashioned by 14 year olds. One though stood out for good reasons. It had a double swing seat which meant two occupants could swing individually or in sync.
I liked it. A lot.
I found myself chuckling and mentally racing Normski. This was the Red Rum of swing seats. [You can reach a fair speed on a swing seat if you try hard enough.]Things got a bit out of hand. A small crowd gathered - to cheer me on I assumed...

NB: Managers in garden centres take a dim view of exuberant use of garden furniture.

Noah had it right

It's been a bit damp here of late. No, scrub that. It's been tipping down. For days. Actually,God seems to be sitting on a celestial cloud somewhere watching for me venturing out the door.

If I stayed inside, the weather stayed nice. One foot over the threshold [any threshold]and down came the deluge. Not only that but God likes to send the deluge when my feet are tucked in cute little strappy numbers. It's hard to look dignified when the hems of your trousers are slopping around like wet ears on a Basset hound and your toes are going blue. I've long believed that God has a tremendous sense of humour.

Normally, looking undignified wouldn't be too much of an issue but this week I started my new job and there's a certain expectation in the role. So, instead of making a suave and sophisticated first impression, I've spent most of my time bedraggled and dripping. Ah well.

On the up side, I've met a lot of nice people and am settling in to a very nice office. My new boss has had the place redecorated and newly furnished for my arrival. All it needs now is the nameplate on the door. [Arrives next week apparently]I'm trying to cope with the frustrations of change but I'm not a patient person. I hate having to waste/take time to set up or learn new access codes and systems etc. I want to be off and running but that's unrealistic after 4 days. Even for me!
I've had to be dragged out the building each night by His Nibs, such has been my desire to get on with things.

In the meantime, Herbert the pot plant is in position and the coffee machine is primed ready for action. I expect there'll be much to Witter about in the coming weeks so watch this space dear reader.

Phew!

It's a good thing this blog uses no author photos because, trust me dear reader, you wouldn't want to see the state of me this afternoon as I write. This weekend has been jam packed with adventures.

First of all, I'm delighted to mark the arrival of our newest family member. He's a fine looking boy but how his mother managed to deliver him remains a mystery to me. She's a dainty wee thing and he's a hefty bruiser of a baby in comparison. Imagine Tinkerbell producing a bowling ball. Isn't nature marvellous? We were all on tenterhooks waiting for him to appear and now his grand entrance is made.
He chose to arrive the day before my birthday [I was secretly hoping we'd share the day]. This, of course, means I am less likely to forget his birthday and his granny and I agree that all the best people are born in May. My home now has birthday cards vying for shelf space with good luck, sorry you're leaving and congratulations cards. Very cheerful. The work related cards will be decanting to my new office on Tuesday. My birthday was lovely but pretty hectic all in.

As well as my birthday celebrations His Nibs and I were attending a wedding ceilidh in deepest Musselburgh. His Nibs tried out his kilt outfit and found his sporran was missing a tassle [a concern for any self respecting Scotsman] so he took it back to the shop to have it replaced. Thankfully no surgery was required.
Sadly, his relief was shortlived as it later transpired that the replacement sporran was too small and unfit for purpose. I know what you're thinking...
It was a sporran emergency as the outfit is no use without one. There can be no birling of the kilt without a sporran to keep things as and where they should be.

Cue mad phone calls across Fife to source a spare sporran. Time was ticking by and the first dance might have been over before we got there. The phone was red hot. I was calling people I hadn't called in years. Once they stopped laughing people very kindly checked cupboards etc and eventually a sporran was found. Emergency averted.

We made it to the ceilidh and were able to wheech round the dance floor with the best of them. Well, up until my head turned into a pumpkin that is and His Nibs had to take me home. Migraines have no sense of timing whatsoever. Or maybe they do and are the work of the devil...