About two weeks into the journey there were some strange noises coming from the cockpit.
An announcement was made over the P.A. regarding some qualitative fieldwork which I was required to do every week for the rest of my foreseeable life commencing at 10:00am and finishing at 8:00pm. Something about going to supermarkets and asking people about the minor and irrelevant details that they like or dislike about that supermarket at that specific point in time.
These were to be in supermarkets everywhere except for within 30 minutes of my home. I could envisage myself to be writing reports about bruised peaches and disorderly pasta shelves for the rest of my career.
Not to be perturbed (after all I was already at cruising altitude) I decided to ask a simple question in return. "I've just signed a contract for a 38 hour week and now you're asking me to work 10 hours plus travel on one day in every week. Is there a system for time in lieu to ensure I don't get overworked?"
The plane began to shudder and took a fairly serious nosedive when I received a reply email with a pithy yet obtuse subject line - 'Lol!'. The 'lol' (which is internet-speak for 'laugh out loud' I have since read) was one thing, but the inclusion of the exclamation mark was as alarming as it was volume-enhancing.
After processing the content of the email - including some choice quotes such as 'you haven't even started here yet and you're asking for time off' and 'what do you think this is? do you want a real job or not?' - I decided it best to go into the cockpit to clarify what must have been an administrative error. Or at least a short-term brain lapse from a capable pilot.
Upon entering the cockpit you'd understand my shock as I realised that my pilots were in fact an aggressive and savage Welsh poet and a disorganised and overly emotional cat-lady living in the hills of New Zealand. They sure looked the same, but all signs and controls were pointing to an impending disaster.
I retook my seat and put my seatbelt on a little tighter. Things weren't looking quite as rosy as what they once did and the hamburger I ate started to process a little quicker than what it otherwise would. The turbulence might not end here.
An announcement was made over the P.A. regarding some qualitative fieldwork which I was required to do every week for the rest of my foreseeable life commencing at 10:00am and finishing at 8:00pm. Something about going to supermarkets and asking people about the minor and irrelevant details that they like or dislike about that supermarket at that specific point in time.
These were to be in supermarkets everywhere except for within 30 minutes of my home. I could envisage myself to be writing reports about bruised peaches and disorderly pasta shelves for the rest of my career.
Not to be perturbed (after all I was already at cruising altitude) I decided to ask a simple question in return. "I've just signed a contract for a 38 hour week and now you're asking me to work 10 hours plus travel on one day in every week. Is there a system for time in lieu to ensure I don't get overworked?"
The plane began to shudder and took a fairly serious nosedive when I received a reply email with a pithy yet obtuse subject line - 'Lol!'. The 'lol' (which is internet-speak for 'laugh out loud' I have since read) was one thing, but the inclusion of the exclamation mark was as alarming as it was volume-enhancing.
After processing the content of the email - including some choice quotes such as 'you haven't even started here yet and you're asking for time off' and 'what do you think this is? do you want a real job or not?' - I decided it best to go into the cockpit to clarify what must have been an administrative error. Or at least a short-term brain lapse from a capable pilot.
Upon entering the cockpit you'd understand my shock as I realised that my pilots were in fact an aggressive and savage Welsh poet and a disorganised and overly emotional cat-lady living in the hills of New Zealand. They sure looked the same, but all signs and controls were pointing to an impending disaster.
I retook my seat and put my seatbelt on a little tighter. Things weren't looking quite as rosy as what they once did and the hamburger I ate started to process a little quicker than what it otherwise would. The turbulence might not end here.
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