A bad smell

I’ve been listening this morning to Radio National Talk-back regarding taboos in the workplace.

 

I was particularly taken by a comment by someone describing what I believe they thought was the perfect work lunch – everyone with their alarms set to signal the end of the scheduled one hour, no alcohol consumption, only mineral water, no risque, racist, sexist,  ageist, leftist, rightist, religious or political conversation. I thought to myself: If I was at that table I would be poking out my eyes with the dining fork.

So, the discussions led to two taboo types:

• One the things you cannot do in the workplace; and two

• The things you cannot talk about.

 I expected the former to focus on acts of intimacy enjoyed between two people in the privacy of their own non-work environment, but no, the conversation was about  aromatic foods and swearing. 

I know what a salmon can opened in the air does – it wafts into every crevice of the universe and lingers until it has sucked all the air into itself and exploded into a million pieces, reminding one for weeks that it had a brief, but mind (or nostril) numbing existence. The same could be said of egg sandwiches and some curries.  

No-one mentioned the crunch of celery sticks or the persistent whistler, but they did bemoan the demise of the sick room – a bex and a good lie down for half an hour used to do it.

We covered off perfumes and how a good cuppa with the team first thing in the morning will get your worries off you chest and you can tell the non-soap user that they really do stink and then go blithely about your work for the day content in the fact that you have it off your chest. 

Do I want to work there? 

I think not!

 It appears that one cannot talk about ‘flexibility’ for workers. It’s a taboo. I was alarmed to hear the academic positing about this that flexible workplaces are not productive because flexibility for some means impost on others. Now, I say, show me the evidence of the former, and show me the actions management has taken to mitigate the latter. My experience is when you give people flexibility and some control over their work arrangements, you end up with more bang for your buck, so to speak.

I was pleased to hear someone say that we have moved to trying to regulate good manners.

As for swearing, I think it’s about context. I recall being in my private office once letting off steam  about a particularly difficult client who was outside hyperventilating into a paper bag having behaved like a mad person and burst in demanding the universe and my first born. A colleague came in, overheard my rant to myself and chastised me about my language being offensive to her. 

My advice: Don’t come in to my office unannounced!

You see, I think there are a range of tabbos that are much more significant than any of the things I heard cited this morning. 

My list includes:

• Red tape and process for the sake of it
•  A culture that values presence rather than outcome
• Workplaces that promote inept good talkers into people management roles and who then destroy everyone within their arm span
• Managers who can’t find anything valuable in what existed before them

I’m reminded that women were once a workplace taboo

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Art Work of the Week.

I think some of my tea cosies might be taboo in the office- a bit phallic me thinks

Rocket Man

What, Soap?

When my daughter turned thirty I received a phone call. 

You never told me I could expect grey hairs for my Birthday, she cried down the line.

 When she turned 40 the phone call was to tell me she had just found her first grey eyelash.

Bennie has announced this week that he will retire as age prevents him from performing his duties  effectively and we will soon be watching for smoke from the Vatican.

There are a lot of things about aging that nobody tells you.

We are a family that suffers from cramp and seem to need excessive amounts of salt in our diet. Good living purists and health freaks with whom I sometimes dine are appalled by the amount of white stuff that gets sprinkled across my dinner. 

Of late I’ve discovered that the cramps are far more frequently. 

I have imagined that I might have impending thrombosis, a cancer of some sort, some obscure tropical or African disease acquired in my travels and that both my legs would soon be in need of  amputation. I imagined what life would be like without my legs and whether I would be a good paraplegic and a potential Special Olympics contender. For a moment I envisaged myself as the South African  Blade Runner, but ’m glad that thought only lasted a second given his arrest in the last few days. 

In an effort at self diagnosis I have consulted Dr Google and learn that 70% of adults over 50 suffer nocturnal cramps. That figure was a surprise. 

And, it turns out my complaint can be treated with the simplest of remedies. I can have a spoon handy and place it on the offending cramp when it occurs; or I can sleep with a bar of soap under the sheets at the end of the bed. 

Since I don’t live in Ireland where playing with spoons is a mark of a good pub musician, the image of a mad woman continually tapping herself with an item of cutlery – particularly when required in public places - was just a bit beyond my eccentricities. 

So I have opted for the soap.

Instructions call for wrapping the soap in elastic bands and pinning it to the bedclothes so it doesn’t move. I’ve just stuck it under the bottom sheet and hoped for the best.  Mind you, I am worried that should I, by some sheer stroke of luck, or madness, happen upon an attractive and willing playmate, he will wonder what I am doing with an apparent urinal deodoriser in my bedclothes. Hopefully I will get enough notice of the impending event that I can whip away the soap bar before our passions overcome us and we are writhing around in ecstatic bliss.

…oops, where was I?

That’s right – the cramps.

So far the soap is working. 

I’ve been reading recently about the placebo effect and truth be told that may be what I am experiencing. Nevertheless, I am not now writhing about like I am having a fit when I awake or sitting bolt upright from slumber crying out in pain and frightening the neighbours. 

So whatever it is that is working, it’s working..

I’ve got options though should the remedy fail:

·       If the cramps return I am advised to throw out the soap and replace it with a new bar

·       I can decorate a spoon so that it looks like a fly swat and flip away at the cramps as they arise

·       Or, I can go back to reading Tom Stoppard who has already taught me that nothing is insoluble given a large enough plastic bag. 

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Art Work of the Week

 Some would call knitting Tea Cosies a habit that comes with aging.

Cool Running created after a conversation with the honey lady at the Tuggeranong Markets

Lessons from Singapore

I’ve just returned from a week in Singapore – a week of sightseeing, Tiger beer, huge walks, blister torture, hawker stalls, Dempsey Hill restaurants, art galleries, exhibition openings  and the dazzle of Orchard Road.

On my visit this time I have learnt a number of new things about Singapore

• ·         6.9 Million is the optimum population limit for the city.

A white paper released during the last weeks has sparked public interest and debate about what this all means for PR’s (Permanent Residents) and whether the import of foreign workers takes away jobs from locals; expansion of the MRT (the rail service), its impact on existing wildlife corridors and why an extra carriage or two added to trains to give additional capacity is an impossibility; golf course closures – whose will be gone by 2030 – the magic target date; up-skilling local workers and enticing older people back in to the workforce. It all sounds so familiar.

The law and foreign affairs minister has ‘urged young people to think hard about the need for economic growth, to create enough good jobs for a rising number of future graduates, and generate the tax revenue needed to support a growing number of elderly people. The Straits Times Feb 4

• ·         You can clean anything with a whisk broom

The city is pristine – no unauthorised weeds, leaves or litter grow, fall, drift or accumulate. There is no real sign of polishing windows and wiping down handprints, but everything sparkles. Occasionally there is a man with a whisk broom who seems to shoot out of the shrubbery like a robo-vacuum cleaner sweeping up offending debris with a typical Asian whisk broom. My guess is that these folk are hidden everywhere on the alert for recalcitrant litter.  Or, to ascribe to my travel mate’s theory, a whole hive of worker bees emerge between 3and 5am and spring clean the city before anyone notices.

• ·         English

The Singaporeans are fluent users of English, but often with a certain archaic quaintness. Boats ‘ply’ their way up the river,  issues ‘spur serious debate’, troublemakers are reported as ‘rogues’ and ‘ring leaders’; and you can still hear the occasional ‘La’ sneak into a conversation.

Charges that one might have laid against one for offensive or illegal conduct include: Outrage of modesty and Insult of modesty.

• ·         Home spun wisdom turns up in unexpected places.

On a boat trip around Singapore you can learn from a young Singaporean deck hand that ‘its not easy to be easy. It’s not difficult to be difficult’

• ·         We are all part of Caesar’s last breath

According to Physics we can assume that the molecules which Caesar exhaled in his last breath have diffused evenly to the whole atmosphere and by Mathematical calculation can determine that  every person breathes in a molecule of that last breath. You can check it out by Googling the topic, but it’s better discussed overlooking the southernmost point of Singapore with a cold Tiger beer in hand. A trip to Sentosa Island is not all glitz and manicured beachfront.

• ·         Everyone is hard wired

Step on to the MRT and 9/10 people are connected to some sort of device: watching movies, playing games, smsing, everything quiet except for the occasional hushed conversation, the announcement of upcoming stations and the perpetual warning to beware of the platform gap. I am reminded of the Educational thinker who on being told by a teacher that students were not engaged replied: Look at them in the playground. They are totally engaged!

• ·         Tips for travel to and from Pulau Ubin

Pulau Urbin is a small island off the Malaysian Coast and is accessed by bumboat which has no scheduled timetable and departs only when there are 12 passengers waiting to board. Upon arrival one is met with a range of signs that advise travellers about their safety including tips to keep monkeys out of your home. I now know that if I do not feed them they will not bother me. I will remember to apply this tip when I get home.

Do not return from Pulau Ubin carrying a knife. When you are scanned by the sentry at the entry point you will be arrested, charged, fined and imprisoned for 8 years. Unless you are one of a group of holy men in white skirts and exposed torso marked with white paint on your face and back. Then you can walk right on through without scanning as you can obviously be trusted.

• ·         Why there is minimal crime

If you are caught making graffiti you will be fined $30 00, caned and imprisoned for 2 years.

If you take flammable liquids on a train you will be fined $5000, smoking gets you a $1000 fine and $500 for eating or drinking on the service. You are absolutely forbidden to take durians on the train – the penalty is not spelt out so I wonder if that is because it is too terrible to articulate.

If you take home a diamond ring that has been accidentally left behind by a traveller at your security station at the airport you will be jailed for two years as you have bought the public service in to disrepute.

If you are on a bus you are prohibited from assaulting the captain.

• ·         The lunar New Year is a big deal

Red and gold decorations were appearing everywhere during my stay in preparation for last night’s New Year celebration. I have learnt that at the celebrations the Prime Minister would play with firecrackers, as only he is allowed – words of our taxi driver.

I also now know that the giving of red packets with crisp unfolded bank notes is essential for good luck, as is a new deep V cleavage obtainable from a local cosmetic surgery outlet.

• ·         The cost of living is over the top

A basic new car will cost in excess of $100 000 and probably closer to $200 000. Apartment sale prices of $11million + were not misprints. $7000 per month is not  excessive for a decent apartment.

But if you do manage to purchase a car ensure that you have a pumpkin, mandarine or cumquat adorning the dashboard so that good luck settles upon you.

• ·         You can fix an overheated motor with a leaf blower, and the world ends at Changi

After a morning’s trek through the rainforest of Pulau Ubin we returned to the mainland and decided to walk from Changi Village along the beach front hoping to arrive at Changi airport. We soon learnt that it is almost impossible to do so unless one has trained with marathon walking for many months and has the water and supplies to last the trip. Two+ hours on, and two+ hours back we should have taken the advice of a local who we asked for directions in the first place. But we saw the amazing coastline and did come across some local workers who were doing restoration footpath work with a machine, that like us, was overheated. They had a leaf blower out cooling it down. We should have stood in line as it obviously worked for the machine. 

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This Week's Art Work

...OK, So, it's some photos taken at the Gardens by the Sea.

Someone else's problem

I read on the internet, so it must be true, that a Canadian company called Hyperstealth is reporting it has developed Quantum Stealth, a material that renders the target “completely invisible by bending light waves around the target.” If the mock-up photos are to be believed, Quantum Stealth basically works like Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak.

I could have saved them the research dollars . You just have to reach middle age and invisibility happens.

Young beautiful things charge in to me in the street oblivious that I am walking the same trajectory. Ok, I’m short, but not that short. Where I once could go to the bar and get a beer or a glass of wine quite easily I now have to stand on the nearest chair rung and wave frantically so that I attract attention. You can see the chiselled, gym toned barman musing; Should I call the cops, or just see if she is lost?

Last weekend I popped in to the local shops to but some steak on my way to a BBQ. There were two lads serving. One of the fellows - let’s call him Snags - attended to the only other customer while I stood by.  The other, hereafter called Stewie, went ‘out the back’. By the time Stewie came back Snags was well into his service. But a group of people headed by a rather attractive young woman had entered and was positioned way down at the end of the counter. Stewie had to walk right by me to serve her – and that’s what he did. I looked non-plussed,  said I think I was next, and that was it – everything went on as if I had said nothing. I think I had fallen into Harry Potter’s invisibility cape.   

So I left, and bought my steak next door at the national chain where there are women of all ages employed, and who actually greet me as I go in and out regardless of whether I am in my daggy exercise gear or dressed up in my best bling.

Recently I bought a new top – served by a lovely bubbly young girl who no doubt was still in high school. When I settled on a  fluorescent  green blouse her remarks were: My you’re brave. I’m still not sure whether I should have been insulted.

I’m think I am invisible on the road. Lots of cars – particularly those driven by female P platers in a hurry to get to God knows where - drive two inches from my bumper bar for kilometres on end  oblivious to my right to be there. Others zip past and cut in front while I am doing the speed limit. The only clue I get that they have even noted my presence is the occasional finger gesture.

Despite government initiatives to extend the age of the workforce or re-engage or entice older workers back to the desk, I’m convinced that the smart young things who have shot up the ladder with no experience and even less wisdom just want us to fade off into their peripheral vision, or get assigned even more remotely to old folks homes with high walls. I can’t provide any hard evidence for this view, but I get the feeling. 

I’m now retreating to a world where instinct and nous, trumps data and facts.

I muse about whether I noticed older people when I was one of the chosen generation. Did I expect them to step out of my way? Did I run my trolley or stroller into them as they sauntered along? 

Once when I was a child I attended a clearance sale at a house not far from where I lived. I could not have been more than ten years old. An old fellow was trying to bid on a number of walking sticks. The auctioneer couldn’t, or wouldn’t, hear him. I felt guilty forever that I had not spoken up on his behalf. On reflection I wonder now if he had entered the invisibility realm.

Douglas Adam’s described SEP’s in his Hitchiker’s series…Things that you just see out the corner of your eye if you look away, and look quickly back again – like a sofa appearing on the centre wicket at Lords, you catch a glimpse of it, but you don’t believe it.  Someone Else’s Problem (SEP). You don’t have to deal with it, you just pretend it isn’t there.

I’ve determined to become an SEP. Then I can do whatever I like and no one will notice – the world will just whoosh past around me while I pointy dance on the front porch dressed only in my Tshirt.

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Art Work of the week

And now for paintings of the Tea cosies.......

Betty's Best British Brew. Acrylic on paper  140x90mm