Mab of Dream

I remember, a handful of Bonfire Night's ago, sitting in Jem's backgarden. There had been a bonfire, but it was mainly embers now, and all but one other had already gone to bed. He was passed out on vodka opposite me. I sat outside, wrapped in my coat and a blanket, and felt the weight of my reality bearing down on me.

It was a Saturday night, but Bell Fruit, where I worked, hung over me like a huge, blank, leather-winged entity, ready to pick at me until I was dead. It sounds melodramatic now, but I can still picture vividly what it felt like to be me then. There was a sense of constantly being in trouble; of never being good enough; of pushing yourself past exhaustion, into insanity. People had committed suicide working there; and I'd known of several nervous breakdowns. It was the nature of the place and it worked on you emotionally and psychologically.

Earlier that week I had reclaimed £28,000 of an outstanding collective debt of £32,000 owing to the company from hundreds of businesses. I'd done that in a single month and I had a system in place to recover the rest in this month. The Managing Director was in and he called me to him and told me off for not getting all £32,000 during that month. The whole lot had been outstanding for a year or more...

Skip forward. Me having the courage to look for another job. It doesn't sound like a thing that requires courage. But when you worked at Bell Fruit, it did. They had you psychologically by the tits and it felt like you'd be personally responsible for Armageddon, if you got another job. I remember once having 36 application forms out simultaneously, and I didn't get an interview for any of them. With my friend practically dialling the number for me, I 'phoned one and asked for feedback. She told me that it was because I had a degree and I should omit that from future applications. It frightens prospective employers off.

Skip forward again to lat February 2001. I was at my friend's sister's house (after picking her son up from school) at the moment that the 'phone call came. I'd got the job at the University of Wolverhampton. The Graduate School wanted me.

I shakily came off the phone and just screamed. I cried, screamed, I was utterly inconsolable. I completely believe that that 'phone call saved my sanity. Bell Fruit refused to pay me the 86 hours overtime that they owed me; I refused to work the holiday that they owed me in response. I had so much emotional blackmail heaped upon me, but I had the Lady Othilia in the background saying, 'Tell them to fuck right off!' So I did.

I did a week's notice; got paid for another 3 weeks, which was part of the holiday that I hadn't been allowed before. Then that was me and Bell Fruit done. Oh! Not quite. They were so late getting my tax return processed that I hardly got anything for my first month's wages at the University, which started a process which landed me into so much debt. But, 3 years on, I'm nearly solvent again.

So what have I learned from working at the GSO? I've learned that I have the right to say 'no', when it comes to work... probably when it comes to everything else too. I'll never again be in the state I was in Vic Waite's office - when he called me in and stood over me shouting at me, telling me how much trouble I'd caused for the company, because the doctor had signed me off for a week with stress. Not that BF had left it at that. I'd taken to never answering the phone and one time my placid Mum had had a row with my line manager because he demanded to speak to me. That day in the office, I'd been curled into a tiny ball, sobbing my heart out, while the regional manager shouted about how wrong I'd been to go off with stress. Even with a doctor's note. The GSO taught me that it was the company that was wrong; not me.

I learned how to slow down. Yes, this is me slowed down! LOL I learned that you don't have to approach your working life at a break-neck speed and wear yourself out. You do just as much as you can comfortably do, in the time allotted you to do it, and if there's work left over, it'll do tomorrow. The GSO refused point blank to let me work my dinnerhour or after half 5 at night. The GSO taught me that I HAD to have a dinnerhour, as a matter of legality.

The GSO taught me that if you are off sick, or you have finished for the day; then you are your own person. You cannot be contacted. Your health and leisure are important.

The GSO gave me confidence. Or at least the circumstances in which to develop confidence. Heather said, not long after I started, that it was like employing little Orphan Oliver - I was just so grateful for any consideration or kindness and I worked like a Trojan. I learned how to retain that belief in myself and my abilities, even under sustained attack, even with people intimating on a daily basis that I am stupid. I learned that I'm not.

The GSO also persuaded me to enrol for my Master of Arts in History. This whole blog is supposed to be about my progress there. The GSO also paid for it.

So, I arrive at my leaving day older (only 3 years physically, but mentally more like 30), wiser, calmer, freer. I know who and what I am; and I have the confidence now to fly.

yours
mab
xxxxx