Day 4… or maybe 5… Auckland

Posted on February 9, 2010 by Christina Kenny

0930
Monday 8 February 2010
Dubai International Airport

I am experiencing a strange clenching in the pit of my stomach, and a slight but insistent nausea that comes and goes in waves, but I suspect that this has less to do with emotional upheaval than with the multiple bottles of imported Oyster Bay that my cousin and I glugged our way through last night while watching heavily edited BBC dramas on Arabic network television. This is our quality time. Knock it at your peril.

My feelings on leaving Dubai are mixed. The larger and nobler part of me rejoices at escaping from a country where my every noseblow is anticipated and prepared for by an effective underclass of waiters, porters, maids, and bathroom attendants. On the other hand, I am still experiencing feelings of persecuted indignation after having been forced to actually depress the pump of a soap dispenser using my own hand in the departure lounge bathroom, rather than have the usual sensors pick up on my presence and deposit a burst of pre-lathered suds into my waiting fist.

In other news, I am becoming more and more bothered by an as-yet unfounded conviction that the extremely large and smelly American from the queue for security may not only be booked onto my 19-hour flight, but will actually sitting next to me. I am watching the gate entrance hawkishly for any signs of his arrival. It’s pretty late in the day to be reporting to the gate, but he’s probably chowing down in the food hall on fatty, flatulence-inducing junk foodstuffs.

Less Sauvignon Blanc, more sleep.

0857 (but not really)
Tuesday 9 February
Brisbane Airport

Fatty did not board my flight. Thank God. He’s probably in LA by now, continuing to be happily rotund. I feel a bit bad about the scale and cruelty of my paranoia, but all the same was grateful when a reticent and slender female deposited her small backside on the chair next to mine – which, I might add, was the most uncomfortable aeroplane chair ever made, ever, ever, ever. The steward I consulted on the matter was very sympathetic, and confided that he thought the chairs had been designed for ‘Chinese, Japanese, and other such small people’. This does not explain why there was a hole where the small of my back should have been and my feet were unable to touch the floor at any angle of reclining.

I am about to return to this throne of torture for a further 4 hours of masochism. We’ve been decanted into a transit area apparently designed with the primary aim of flogging brightly-coloured boomerangs. I’m off to do some sit-ups. Ow. Ow. Ow.

2022 (how?)
Tuesday 9 February
Auckland, youth hostel

My brain has gone a bit screwy through sleep deprivation, so the maths may be off, but I’m fairly certain I last slept around 30 hours ago. Am quite highly-functioning despite this. Apart from the twitchy leg. Have made friends with an Israeli who doesn’t seem to mind. But I have no idea where he is. Are we still friends?

More later on, but for now, two PLUSSES in Auckland’s favour.

1. They have public drinking fountains everywhere. This is a Good Thing.

2. When the ‘green man’ shows for pedestrians, he’s first of all animated (presumably to teach you how to tackle flat surfaces) and then he is replaced by a count-down ticker indicating exactly much time you have left to cross. All this about New Zealand being thirty years behind is clearly complete bollocks.

And a MINUS:

1. It’s full of tanned harem-panted gappers.

By the way, films watched were:

– 500 Days Of Summer (that bitch)
– Bedknobs And Broomsticks (“rub your knob, Paul”)
– Michael Jackson’s This Is It (first 20 minutes, feel cheated)
– Ice Age 3 (first 5 minutes, retch)
– Where The Wild Things Are (first 20 minutes: couldn’t get into it, and besides, I was on a roll what with all the channel hopping)
– Paranormal Activity (think it was meant to be very very scary but the contrast was a bit wonky on my console so I might have missed a bit)
– Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (enjoyable)
– Mary Poppins (suddenly realised that Julie Andrews has been typecast in childcare films)
– 2 episodes of Malcolm In The Middle (genius)

Eyes are still swirling.

It’s very hot here, by the way. And with this profound observation I retire to bed.

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Day 1: Dubai

Posted on February 5, 2010 by Christina Kenny

As I type the beginning of this post, I’m sitting at a table overlooking the pool in my uncle’s Jumeira garden, with Max (The Best Dog In The World) at my feet and the UAE’s annual allowance of rainfall hanging overhead in the form of dense, black clouds.

This, the first leg of my journey to New Zealand, is the furthest I’ve travelled alone since a trip to Newquay in 2004. The journey, all told, could have been much worse. Part of me had anticipated that Anita and my parents would have to physically drag me from my room where I’d been holed up for a couple of days pretending to pack while indulging in some ill-timed nesting activity.

Though driving to airports is always a stressful exercise for the Kenny / Berry family, this part of the journey went smoothly. My parents were even thoughtful enough to make our parting at the security gate as unheart-wrenching as possible. Mum, for example, insisted on answering most of the security check-in questions for me. Dad did his bit to alleviate the agony of farewell by telephoning me during my traditional Customs frisking and bag search to enquire (at a level audible both from the tinny telephone receiver and from beyond the security barrier 50 metres away) what kind of gear I was smuggling this time.

Duty-free was a rush for flip-flops and earplugs and so the only chance I got to panic properly was in the toilets at the departure gate before boarding. The litre of Gordons in my hand luggage suddenly seemed very tempting: it was lucky for its intended recipients that I didn’t have a straw (I’m not entirely without class). Once on the plane, my escape options were even more limited. Admitting I was scared and asking to disembark was out of the question. Too embarrassing. Claiming to be wearing explosive pants might have helped me save face, but would ultimately have ended in jail, or at least some pretty searching questions from men with guns. I was stuck with travel and adventure.

Despite having flown quite a few times before, I still get excited by plane trips. The take-off is always pretty hideous (just what is it that keeps a plane, you know, up?) and I do like to have a window seat, to keep an eye on the wing and its enduring partnership with the plane. But once they turn the seatbelt sign off and start handing out the tiny, tiny biscuits, long-haul flights become a glorious excuse to sit back and do nothing for a while without feeling guilty. I’m also very much in favour of taking advantage of the full range of ‘complimentary’ beverages on offer. (In case you were wondering, the inverted commas indicate the extremely non-complimentary nature of said beverages in the greater context of the enormously expensive air fare). Nothing soothes the nerves better than two or three mini bottles of wine – which,by the way, you can also use to pretend you’re a giant. Impress your friends by drinking halves of beer to achieve the same effect.

The absolute best part of flying is the in-flight entertainment. As well as the capering of air stewards, most airlines now provide touch-sensitive computer monitors in the back of each seat that allow you to watch films as and when you like. My plane also had video cameras displaying views from the cockpit and of the landscape below, so that in the unlikely event of a crash, you can observe the details of your impending death in full colour. All my flights are with Emirates, who have an impressive selection of films, television programmes, games and music – check out the link and let me know your recommendations for my next flight on Monday, a twenty-hour marathon to Auckland.

I ended up watched Julie and Julia, which I loved, without really being able to explain why. Meryl Streep’s shimmering exuberance coupled with her character’s silly voice probably had something to do with it, as did the extensive and entirely luscious food pornography. I also watched Up (for the second time) and cried like a child throughout (again). If you haven’t seen it, do so now. It’s life-affirming without being sugary, fanciful without being ridiculous, and hilarious while remaining terribly, truthfully poignant. Go.

What else? The meal was chicken. It was ok. There was a madman sitting behind me and several air stewardesses on board who deserve medals for their restraint with cutlery. So much for travelling. The plane landed in Dubai just after midnight and I was was greeted by my uncle and his wife, and at their home by Gina (a twenty-something dog; like Boggins, terribly sweet but suffering from many ailments of the bottom), Binti (a traumatised desert dog who spends much of her time pretending not to exist), and Max.

I’m finishing this post after dinner and a neighbourhood drinks party at which I broke a statue belonging to the host, sitting in the living room with Max. It’s hard to express just how amazing Max is. He’s always pleased to see you, even if you did knock something over that can probably never be mended or replaced. He’s actually always pleased to see pretty much anyone, including people who spit on him in the street. He senses when people are unhappy and capers for their amusement. He becomes positively hysterical at the sight of round objects, and earlier today charged and head-butted a parked car because he believed the ball to be in its vicinity. (It was. I threw it there by mistake.) He likes to jump into the swimming pool with all four legs splayed out, and then uses the ladder to get out. He once broke his tail by wagging it too hard.

His head on my left foot, Max is lying in an anatomically improbable splay designed to afford his testicles maximum contact with the cool tiles of the floor. My foot is becoming decidedly moist. Max, at this moment, is behaving singularly unattractively, but I wouldn’t be anywhere ele. Max is The Best Dog In The World and a more than adequate incentive to begin my travels.

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D For Dalrymple’s Guide To Successful Temping

Posted on January 27, 2010 by Christina Kenny

Once clear of the academic (and/or alcoholic) restrictions of university, many new graduates are faced with some serious choices.

Option A. Take a gap year, or just a few months off to do something worthwhile (or selfish).
Option B. Spend time researching and applying for jobs; get one, stay in it, work your way up, put deposit on flat, etc., etc..
Option C. Work as a temp to gain cash for the Next Big Thing.
Option D. Go back to university.

First time round I plumped for option D. One year on, I had to admit that my ideas about the semi-permeable closet of the 1740s as site for homosocial production and consumption of pornography were never going to stretch to a PhD thesis and, moreover, I lacked the attention span to write that many… you know… words, in one go. In late 2007 I reconsidered my options, factoring in a replacement D:

Option D(i): Develop pleurisy and spend a month lying on the sofa feebly commenting ‘ow’ when asked to do anything.

(Andrew, with an air of disbelief, asked ‘but isn’t pleurisy an extinct disease of poverty?’ Apparently not. Though it is gratifyingly unusual and gained me an admiring fan base of medical students at A&E.)

When capable of normal breathing, I resolved to pursue option B and signed on while jobseeking. This was depressing. Suddenly, temping seemed ideal. Just to tide me over, obviously. Until the Next Big Thing.

Two years on, I am comfortably established in my first sustained period of unemployment, having continuously temped over several jobs and two cities since graduating. It’s ridiculously easy to get sucked in. Compared to the job pages, temp agencies (or Temporary Recruitment Consultants, as they like to be called) are swamped with work. This is due in part to their contracts with public sector organisations. People like the NHS, MoD, and DoE – all organisations I’ve worked for – often need temps and will continue to do so until the recession / flu pandemic / zombie apocalypse ends society.

Public sector workers arguably take more short and long-term sick leave than their private sector counterparts, particularly in the NHS and associated care services, where, as the papers so regularly inform us, the problem is acute. A combination of stressful, sometimes dangerous working conditions combined with excellent job security and frankly byzantine discliplinary procedures means that thousands of working hours are lost by a minority of public sector workers who are too ill, depressed, or lazy to come to work. The public sector is forced to take on ‘specialist’ agency workers; that is, trained HCPs, social workers, secretaries and administrators. Or, alternatively, hapless graduates with a rudimentary knowledge of IT.

Take advantage of this. I give you the D For Dalrymple Guide To Successful Office Hopping, or, The Happy Temp.

1. Coping with boredom.

First of all, accept that most temping positions will be either stressful or boring. A boring temp job is frustrating, but gives you a lot to work with in the long-term. If you have half a brain and stay away from sharp objects, you can get that data entry, filing or photocopying done in a couple of hours.

Now stop. Do not tell your manager or supervisor how well you’ve done, not even if you’re pleased with your work and want to impress them. A truthful kind of person, I struggle with deception, but in one placement lost over £400 through hard work and honesty.

You have been hired for a week – or a month, or however long the agency quoted you – and that is what your manager’s budget will pay. They don’t care how the work gets done. In fact, he or she is probably still internally rejoicing that they have managed to palm this work (often comprising their least favourite tasks) off on a temp in the first place. Assuming the company’s large enough, they certainly won’t care how much money HR eventually hand over to you.

Managers will notice someone who clearly has nothing to do. Assume your most studious yet affable face. Don’t worry about appearing lobotomized. If the work is done well you’re likely to get asked back; if you make the manager look brainy in relief, doubly so. Arrange your completed work in minimised windows and get on with private e-mails, job applications, your novel or Tetris until the week is up. Any guilt you feel will dissolve when you get your payslip. It may not seem much, but, worked out as an amount paid per hour of actual work, is more lucrative than selling a kidney (option E, by the way). Probably.

2. Handling stress.

Your payslip won’t be much consolation if you land a stressful assignment. These may be long-term and carry more responsibility, especially if your employers find out that you have skills they can use. This is when having half a brain can work against you. Unless you have an honest employer and a good relationship with your agency, you can easily find yourself slowly absorbing a managerial workload, with all the responsibilities it entails, on a filing clerk’s pay.

Proper toilet and shouting breaks are a must in stressful placements, and it’s sometimes nice to find a friend, be they an amenable co-worker, fellow temp, pot-plant or animal figurine. Try not to talk to the latter too much. While it’s good to be kept busy and to feel valued in your temporary position, equally important is the ability to leave at 5 p.m. and not think about work until 8.59 a.m. the next day. Part of the reason I left my last ‘temp’ job with the NHS was because work didn’t go away, even after hours of unpaid overtime: it came home with me, spat in my dinner and lay all night on the opposite pillow staring at me crossly like an accusing partner.

3. Combination Placements.

If you find yourself in a temp situation that is both boring AND stressful (a special place I like to think of as ‘grinding limbo’), do not give up. There are several activities you can take part in to enliven any workplace scenario. Most involve the internet, but if ethics or firewalls forbid, then by far the most rewarding is to subtly torment your colleagues. Discretion is all, for, while the primary purpose of the game is to amuse, the second and more challenging aim should be to retain your employment for as long as possible.

4. Suggested Temp Activities For Fun And Sabotage.

a) Pick a colleague. Any colleague. I generally pick the ones who don’t even try to conceal their contempt for temps, or those with poor personal hygiene, although you can decide on your own criteria.

Observe your quarry, noting any personal habits or workplace routines. Is there anything that might unsettle them, just a little? If they have a neat and tidy desk, try hiding an item of stationery per day. Have it re-emerge in an unexpected place – atop the computer, under the desk, in the fridge. Start small: paperclips, pens, stapler, working your way up to laptop.

If the chosen one has a conspicuously disorganised approach to their personal workspace, why not try hanging back after work and giving their desk a rigorous tidy? This is guaranteed to provoke suspicion of everyone in the office except you. Why would a temp give a crap about a desk? This could only be the work of someone who cared about cleanliness – that tidy desk guy. Bastard. Perhaps other people in the office know. Perhaps this is all an elaborate trap to make them look stupid. Maybe it’s the office manager, making a point about productivity. This could go all the way to the top…

Alter rate and intensity of play by fuelling your colleague’s insecurities as appropriate.

b) Pay attention to existing or emerging political situations in your office. It is unlikely that you will be around for long enough to engage in these struggles yourself, but probable that you may be drawn into one or more combatants’ confidence. It’s best to withhold your opinion as much as possible, especially in cases of industrial or criminal action (I have been witness to both scenarios), but enjoy the unfolding soap opera while you can. It’s amazing how fraught situations can become: the Cold War was as nothing in comparison to [Company] Support Services Stamp Embezzlement-Gate ’08.

c) Bonus points can be awarded for starting your own office drama. The skilful temp will time the dénouement to coincide with their departure, and really experienced players will be able to artfully conceal any sign of their involvement. Think outside the box. Tampering with the mental state of your favoured colleague can be fun, but it’s perverse to prey on the individual when the whole office could be involved.

Start with the radio. The station playing when you start your assignment will be the chosen result of weeks of acrimonious infighting. It will probably be Radio 2. As an ignorant temp, you have carte blanche to innocently change it to your station of choice. The more unique your taste, the better. If possible, try to alter the station while no-one is looking, then, when the Peruvian nose flute blasts out, make sure you are heard to criticise world music. In the ensuing bitter silence, blame will fall elsewhere. After all, what temp would have the temerity to challenge office power structures?

d) Be alert to colleagues who may be carrying out not-overly-clandestine affairs during office hours, especially if they are using office resources (telephone, e-mail, naughty photocopier photo shoots etc.) in pursuit of said affairs. While this might sound like something off the telly, it’s been pretty much endemic to every minor workplace I’ve been in. Offices are hotbeds of repulsive sexual activity. While most of it will merely serve to keep your gag reflex in tip-top condition, observe any abuse of the facilities and store it should you ever need to give your line manager a gentle prod.

If any of the above seems cruel, remember that, in the months after you leave the organisation, anything that goes wrong will be blamed on you or on the projects to which you were assigned. There is nothing you can do about it. The temp, like George W Bush, has an absolute right to a pre-emptive strike.

If you didn’t click this before, you’re a fool.

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