Gingerbread Woman

It's been a funny old week at the Office

It's not every week the boss admits having a fling with a friend of yours and the paparazzi are queuing outside your office.

It's all been a tad tragic. Poor Tracey Temple has been gloriously dumped on by the establishment with the press running tales of how she'd be moved not only from her post but to another department altogether. That seems harsh. She's good at her job and has served as a civil servant for over two decades. There's thousands of us working for Big John and, at her level, they'd have had no trouble finding a role that wouldn't involve coming into contact with him.

We just recently had a survey round asking for views on how the Department views women. My answer would be that it's still a world where rank and gender have a role in how you're treated, and that this episode has served to underline that.

This morning's news that she's sold her story will no doubt put paid to any return at all but I can't help wondering if she'd have maintained her silence had she not been so swiftly shafted and her imminient departure announced in a week where she was sent into hiding. Ironically we had a circular come round senior staff which claimed that Tracey was being supported through the difficult circumstances. If having The Times announce your job has been whisked away, within 24hours of the story breaking is support, and being told that in a place where there are thousands of staff, spread accross a wide range of offices, there's no space left for you is manifestation of how it feels to be cosseted through turbulent times, I'd too have contemplated calling Mr Clifford.

Then there's the DPM.
He's married. He's taken a stupid risk with his career and his relationship. Yet I can't muster ought besides empathy for him. He came back to work and had the courage to eat his lunch in the staff canteen which I think showed his true colours. He's a courageous fellow who faces things head on.
He's also universally adored by staff.
He may not be some new age new Labour new man. But he's a boss who seems to genuinely surround himself with those best equipped to do the job. He has employed more senior women and gay staff than any other Minister I've worked with. I'm sure he's not a man without prejudice, but when it comes to recruitment and opportunity, he lives the ethos that other, more apparently right on men, purely pay lipservice to.
He entertains his staff. He treats his civil servants with respect, his asks their views and listens to their answers. Unlike another ministers who ooze contempt and superiority in every decision they make, who treat civil servants like idiots who need watching, telling, controlling... Big John knows how to empower his staff.

David Blunkett was known to have been almost universally hated by those who worked for him. I'm sure when his moment came there were many ready to administer the final shove.

What's been really interesting with the DPM and Tracey is that, in a week where the Sun has offered the lure of large wadges of cash for those to come forward who know them; the best that's elicited is a bitter ex-husband and ex wife of the ex husband.

The feelings I've picked up from everyone I've spoken to has been genuine sadness for all those involved, a story, that in itself, tells a thousand stories.

posted by The Gypsy @ 12:11 pm 2 comments

I get all excited

Bragging 'bout how I can post from work, then, whippp, rug from feet, it's no longer true. Sorry folks, I've been technologically adrift without writing to anchor me, and there's no sign of my PC yet. I am however promised it's en route, albeit via Australia. (I'm exaggerating, but honestly, the delivery man is giving Ms West a run on the procrastinating re getting stuff to me, front).

Life is better. I'm still shattered but that's just cos I'm a sudden insomniac and to all those who have 'all good practice this sleep deprivation malarky' on the tips of tongues, I say maybe but personally I'd forgo the training secure in the knowledge that's to come, overdosing on the stuff in order to be functional when it hits. Other than that I'm well. Which makes a nice change. Tadpole is wriggling around and I can feel him now. I'm not sure he's a he cos I had the tell me scan (and YES, of course I want to know, when did you ever hear me say 'in four months please' when asked the 'you want it now, or in four months?' question). Sadly the little bugger wouldn't play ball, rebelling already, not being in the vein of mummy at all, refusing to open it's legs so the nice scanner lady could get a good look. 'Well it'll have to be a surprise then' she said to one crestfallen fat girl with a jelly smeared belly.
Other than that all was well when tadpole went on the telly. Cept that she's got the world's biggest head (and I mean in diameter, on a scale of head measurements) rather than just that, baby's have heads that are too big, hence why their necks can't hold them up for ages, stuff. And the widest hips, in fact, on every measurement she came up right on the edge of 'normal' veering heartlessly towards the big, seriously big, rip mum open, end of scale. Lil sis says 'ignore the nasty nurse who told you that, he's just had a growth spurt, will surely slow down and be just the right size to slip out'. I refrain from saying 'like yours were, what with the forceps and stirrups and two hundred stitches', but only just. My eyes water imagining it, so I pop it in the box labeled 'plenty of time to go there', alongside the birthing chapters of my pregnancy books. I worry for a bit she's a fatty, which you all know is something I've battled with and wouldn't wish on any child of mine, then I read that she's just baggy skin and bones at this stage, and wish she was a fatty, cos fat wouldn't hurt like cartilage.

posted by The Gypsy @ 12:38 am 0 comments