Why is it that when life punches you in the stomach, it regularly decides to come in and punch you in the face as you are going down. For me, life decided to get a few kicks in as I hit the ground as well.
I'm speaking figuratively of course, but bloody hell I remember those months for the pile of faecal matter that fate threw in my general direction. By qualification I'm an engineer and was working on a quite significant project in the English Midlands maintaining the Canal system that litters that part of the world.
Thanks to Liz Truss and Kwasi Kwarteng destroying the economy, my mortgage had gone through the roof (one of Kwasi's former bosses had done very well out it mind you; who could possibly have seen that coming?) and diesel fuel for my truck, and food for me was getting stupidly expensive, and most of the nice things I would buy as a weekend treat was now once a month, sometimes in three months.
Thank God for overdrafts; what am I talking about, thank BANK MANAGERS for overdrafts.
I was managing, just about, working on my second two-year contract, and just under halfway through it. I had just returned from a site visit and was wet through from the crappy bloody weather and the rather poor-quality chest waders that the company had bought for me. I had a change of clothes in my car back at the yard of course, getting wet was a bit of an occupational hazard doing what I do, but decided to take all of the kit and our findings back to my desk before I got showered and changed.
My Boss Vince saw me and the young apprentice that was assigned to me walking, or more correctly 'squelching' back to our desk and called me over.
"Ah Jayne," he said with some embarrassment, "I... err..." he looked down and my light blue jeans darkened by the water and my light sweatshirt similarly marked, "I don't suppose you have five minutes do you?"
I looked down at my sopping wet clothes, the young apprentice almost as wet as me, and grimaced.
"Can it wait half an hour while me and Al get dried off and changed?"
Vince looked partway between apologetic and annoyed, "Well, we have someone from head office that wants a chat."
"Make him another cup of tea, it'll take me..."
"I have to head back to London almost straight away Miss Coniston," said the man in the suit, a very strange visage in our rough and tough portacabined empire full of hard hats, yellow jackets and boots, "It'll only take me a few moments to say what I need to," he said, with his nose in the air.
"OK," I said, "Are we doing this here?"
Vince looked at Al the apprentice and suggested that he left the gear on our desk and went and got himself sorted out while I had the chat with the head office fashionista.
"Miss Coniston," said the man, pulling an envelope from his pocket, "My name is Dan Spencer from corporate HR," he straightened, "I'm afraid we are going to have to let you go."
"What?" I spluttered, "Let me go?" I caught my breath, "but I still have 11 months of my contract to go."
"Yes and I think you'll find financial offer more than satisfactory."
"Is it eleven months' salary?"
"Err... Nooooooo," he dragged out, "but it is the going..."
"Pay me the money you're contractually obligated to pay me, that's what I'll consider satisfactory."
"Miss Coniston, as you've no doubt read in the papers, the company has suffered rather, and we have to reduce costs at very short notice."
"Yes but that's because head office salesman signed the firm up for contracts we can't possibly cover without even asking us, perhaps you should get rid of the sales people first," I said. I was starting to get a bit angry now.
The struggling firm that I worked for had been bought by venture capitalists and my colleagues and I had all watched the serious press and listened to the BBC news as they discussed the possible demise of another large public sector contractor that had overstretched their resources, signed us up for work they couldn't possibly complete and after eighteen months of missed deadlines, unstarted works and very flimsy excuses were now racing to reduce the outgoings so the entire rigmarole wouldn't get flushed down the toilet with the rest of the shit.
"Miss Coniston, we could just sack you and make you go through a tribunal to get your money..."
"Jayne please," said Vince, "at least have a look at the amount, you know what these fucking accountants are like, you could end up with nothing."
The man looked slightly upset by being referred to as a 'fucking accountant' but nowhere near as upset as my soon to be former colleagues starting to crowd around him.
"R... ring me..." he stuttered as the big lads I'd worked with over the last three years surrounded him, grunting and grumbling about me being sent on my way. He backed towards the door, tripping over a rigger-boot covered foot that had been extended behind him.
"Oopsie..." said the foot's anonymous owner.
"Now... Now then..." stuttered the fucking accountant.
"Now then what?" said another rigger boot wearer, a huge guy called Glenn, "you got any other notices in your little briefcase."
"Lads please," said Vince the boss stepping in, "We really shouldn't shoot the messenger fellas."
"This isn't just 'the messenger,'," said Ryan, a shorter engineer but still looking just as angry, reading a comb-bound report, "Your name Dan Spencer, yeah?"
The suited accountant stood up, reaching out for the report that had been lifted straight out of the open designer briefcase my letter had come out of.
"G...give that back, it's none of your business." He reached out for it, but Ryan just stepped back and held the report higher so the diminutive head office axeman couldn't snatch it back. Retrieval was made impossible by the four big lads that crowded around Ryan to get a look.
"Here listen Lads!" Ryan shouted to the now fascinated office, "seems like while we are one of the few parts of the organisation making a profit..." he stepped back behind several taller mates as the accountant tried to snatch back his probably damning report, "it seems that we're worth money and the company that are interested in buying us will only do so if we lose a third of our staff, Dan there," he pointed at the now flushed-looking accountant, "suggest that various excuses, and management and HR ploys are used to dispose of staff members as quickly as possible to expedite matters so the transaction can take place as soon as possible."
He handed the report back over his shoulder for another reader to peruse, I understand it was never seen again, accept at the first few industrial tribunals.
Dan Spencer slammed his briefcase shut and hastily departed in some fear.
I looked into the envelope and there was the cheque; OK, it wasn't eleven months' salary and was just under half of that, but the review report made pretty poor reading and listed several people I was mates with who were due to be 'managed out' of the firm by postings away from where they lived, increased workloads and changes in terms and conditions.
