On Being A Bad Person

Lesson 2/2. Making the best of a bad job

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From when I was very young I knew I was a bad person.  Not seriously wicked, but definitely willing to resort to low cunning.

When I started school, I used to travel on a tram, by myself. (These were more trusting times, when little children frequently went to school on their own).  For this I was given my tram fare.  I worked out that it was possible to walk home, cutting through various back street short cuts, thus saving enough money to buy a weekly copy of The Beano, a corrupting publication my parents had vetoed.

I even selected a back street newsagent on the route, one that my mother would never visit, so that my deception would go undiscovered.

Later on I made good use of an undated doctor’s note to be excused games.  This enabled me to escape the sports field for two winters and avoid being frozen to the bone by the merciless wind straight off the North Sea.

Thus I recognised early in life that I would never make it as a good person.  I could never emulate my contemporaries who worked diligently and consistently to achieve their success. I needed guile and good luck to get there.

I couldn’t understand people who wept because they didn’t make an A grade.  I was just grateful to scrape by!

But over time I discovered that being a bad person has its rewards.  It makes you less ready to judge others. I might have plenty of opinions and be only too willing to air them, but I could never be secure enough to feel superior about the weaknesses of others.

Being a less than perfect person also gives you a healthy appreciation of luck, good and bad. Over the years this can help avoid fruitless heart-searching. You did what you could at the time, but you were dealt a bad hand.  Sometimes luck goes against you.

This doesn’t stop you feeling sorry or guilty when you mess up, but it does make it easier to accept that sometimes things just go wrong.

And when they do, you make the best of a bad job.

Lesson 99. A Cautionary Tale

Lesson 99 on Learning to be servile

I was lucky. I grew up with free state provided Cod Liver Oil and Orange Juice and a ration book controlled diet so I was healthy. I had to walk, run or pedal everywhere, so I was fit.  Relentlessly upbeat Pathe newsreels kept me ignorant of any nastiness in the world.
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When I was old enough to buy my own clothes, it was the sixties and I could squander my full student grant on miniskirts and kinky boots. For the modest entrance fee at the local dance hall or jazz/folk club we could hear the Rolling Stones, the Kinks and the old blues singers touring from America.  Drugs were still a minority interest, so all you could do to harm yourself was get drunk, and we never had enough money to poison ourselves with alcohol.

On the work front, it carried the blessing that I was well into my fifties before I finally acquired a line manager.

You may wonder how the world functioned before everybody had line managers. In schools it was quite straightforward. You had a head teacher who appointed you, then said good morning if he/she bumped into you in the corridor. There was a deputy who organised things and ran around a lot doing most of the work. Then, if your school was big enough to have departments, you had a head of department who held meetings now and again and worried about how much paper you were getting through.

I didn’t have a line manager till my second post-early-retirement job.

When I first went to work in this office it was a cosy, homely place. All the old junk and furniture from the outgrown town hall premises had been moved into a soulless open plan block, so the areas had been divided up by ancient, tall metal filing cabinets with cardboard boxes of assorted items balanced on the top. I particularly remember a large soft toy tiger and the football scarves from when Bobby Moore’s England won the World Cup.

But then we were restructured!  We got line-managers, instead of just the old departmental head, who let you get on with things and trusted you to come to him if a problem arose.

I couldn’t really see the point of my line manager. She knew nothing about the actual work of our team and her only qualification to be in charge was that somewhere along the way she had risen to the next highest grade, so she got paid more.

Once in post though, she had to do something. So she meddled and micromanaged. And, from being the sort of work you could take a modest pride in, the job became a burden.

I could never work out whether she had been promoted beyond her ability or out of her own area of expertise, or if she was just nasty. Whatever it was, she made our life difficult.  We ran an efficient service. We knew our stuff and we kept up-to-date.  But now we had to fit into a whole new set of imposed management boxes. Our clients found us reliable and helpful, but their needs now came second to those of the system we had to operate.

Now there is a language for it, of course, but there wasn’t then. We were just bemused and unhappy.

But I was lucky. 

I was almost sixty before I finally encountered disempowerment.