Work Wife Balance

by Jo Edwards

It was early Saturday evening. The Husband hadn’t returned from golf. I’d waited in all day for someone to come and mend the fence but they hadn’t turned up. I was just about to settle down with a glass of white wine and a cold chicken salad in front of another Poirot mystery (thank God for ITV3 - always something on that caters for the middle-aged middle classes) when the phone rang. Oh bugger off will you, why does that always happen, why? You’re clutching the lovely plate of food you’ve been looking forward to all afternoon and the moment your bottom touches down the phone rings. I answered with a heavy sigh. It was my brother sounding very panicked, and at first I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  “Stu, calm down for goodness sake, I can’t understand you.”

  “It’s Georgia,” he blurted out, his words coming out all in a rush. “She’s staying with us and Kirsty’s away this weekend in London, so it’s just me here and I just don’t know what to do.” I could hear something strange in the background.

  “What’s that noise Stu?” I asked with some trepidation.

  “That’s Georgia - she’s throwing up on the doormat.”

  Euch, yuk.

  “Oh blimey, has she eaten something dodgy?” A thought struck me. “She’s not drunk, is she?”

  “Er, yes, I think she might be.” Jesus Christ, how old was she? Fifteen? “Can you come over, Sis? I don’t know what I should do.”

  I didn’t have much choice but to agree, chuck on a coat, fetch the rubber gloves from under the sink and jump into the car. It was a good half-hour drive. I kicked myself for not being drunk, too - that would have been a cast iron excuse not to go. I shuddered at the thought of what I was driving to - I hate vomit; if I see someone being sick, even on the telly, I want to be sick myself. Drinking that much, at fifteen, that’s not good. I didn’t want to be a hypocrite - I remembered going into a pub when I was just fifteen. My friends knew a barman that would knowingly serve under-age girls. He used to make us cocktails and then stir them with a vibrator, the dirty git. But we didn’t drink so much that we threw up. Just a couple of Babychams was all we needed to make us think we were completely hammered.

  On the positive side though, this situation had saviour-potential written all over it. I imagined myself making Georgia a strong black coffee, we would sit together at the kitchen table and talk, she would open up to me. She’d see me as a cool auntie type, and be inspired by my hard work ethos - my ascent from tea-girl to manager, with responsibility for 100 personnel and a million pound budget. (She didn’t need to know that I was wearing odd socks under my boots and that I’d spent half the afternoon trying to unstick my thumbs following another nail-gluing disaster). We would become buddies and go shopping together, I’d introduce her to Monsoon and when she was old enough, Sauvignon Blanc and stuffed olives. I’d vet her boyfriends and give her advice on relationships and the best savings accounts.

  When I reached Stu’s, I went round the back to avoid the vomit-welcome mat at the front. I could hear Georgia singing what sounded like “God Save the Queen” but I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t think she’d know the lyrics to that one. I opened the back door and walked into the kitchen. Georgia was stood swaying, clutching a can of Red Bull in one hand and holding onto the back of a chair with the other. She was wearing black and red striped leggings under a short black tunic. Her dark eyes were glazed with smudged black make up all round them which had run down her face. It was like Halloween at New Look.

  Demon eyes attempted to focus on mine.

  “Oh God, look who is it,” she snarled, “Mrs fucking know-it-all. What the fuck do you want?”

  “Hello Georgia,” I said, in a cool-Auntie-I’m-unfazed-by-drunken-teenagers-type voice, “Is Stu around?”

  “Hello Georgia is Stu around,” she mimicked in a stupid voice. “My mum can’t bloody stand you, she thinks you’re well up your own arse, she says you only care about your stupid twatty job, you don’t give two shits about your husband, and she says he can’t stand you either. Yeah, go on just do one, you nosy bloody...”

  Feeling rather shaken by her aggression, I edged around the kitchen table and found my brother mopping the floor in the hallway. I could smell vomit and Flash. He looked worn out.

  “Oh Sis, thank God you’re here. What am I going to do with her, she won’t listen to anything I say. She’s out of control!”

  “Give us some booze you tight-arsed twonk!” Georgia shouted from the kitchen.

  “She’s been trying to get her hands on more booze,” Stu said, “I’ve had to hide all my beer and Kirsty’s wine in our bedroom. And the Toilet Duck.”

  “More booze, more booze, twonk-arsed twonk!”

  “How the hell did she get in that state?” I hissed.

  “It was nothing to do with me!” Stu looked alarmed. “She was out all afternoon with her mates, she said she was going to the shopping centre, and then she came back completely shit-faced.”

  There was a crash in the kitchen. We rushed in. Georgia had fallen backwards against the sink, knocking two mugs onto the floor. They lay in bits round her feet. She began laughing, singing “Oops I did it again.” I lifted her up from the sink and tried to get her to sit down. She seemed to be running out of steam. Stu swept up the bits of crockery.

  “Can you stick the kettle on Stu, we need to get some black coffee down her.” I didn’t know what else to suggest.

  “Coffee is puke,” Georgia said, now seated at the table but looking like she’d topple at any time.

  “Water then,” I said to Stu. He poured a glass and we tried to get Georgia to drink it. She’d gone very pale.

  “Gonna chuck.”

  Stu and I quickly lifted her to her feet and over to the sink - just in time. She vomited copiously over the dirty plates and cups in the sink. I gagged, but managed not to be sick myself. I held her hair out of her face, while Stu rubbed her back. When she’d finally expelled it all, I left Stu to clear up the sink and got an exhausted Georgia to lie down on the sofa, and fetched her duvet. She’d crashed out before I’d returned to cover her. I realised we’d have to watch over her all night, in case she was sick again. You hear about people choking on their own vomit and dying. I couldn’t leave Stu alone with her either; I could see how uncomfortable he was which I totally understood. Being responsible for someone else’s child is just enormous.

  He was extremely grateful I was staying and offered to make me cheese on toast. Thinking of the plates in the sink, I declined, so he fetched some of the Bunny Boiler’s wine from the bedroom and we started on that. I phoned The Husband to let him know what was happening. I thought he’d be all grumpy about it, but he was surprisingly understanding and said he’d see me in the morning, and not to worry about rushing back if Stu still needed me tomorrow.

  It didn’t turn out to be such a bad night. Stu and I had agreed to take it in turns to watch Georgia while the other slept, but we ended up sitting up all night chatting. We talked about the wedding (they’d actually set a date for October now, but I still wasn’t convinced it would happen), relationships, work, and our parents. I asked him if he felt worried about Mum at all, and if he thought she was alright.

  “Yeah, she’s ok, I think,” but then he said that when he’d gone round there the other day, he’d found her in the back garden scattering what looked like bath crystals on the lawn. When he’d asked her what she was doing, she’d told him she was feeding the doves. She said it kept them away from the rhubarb. Eh?

  “We really ought to get her to see a doctor Stu, she’s not right.”

  “Oh, she’s fine, she’s just getting on a bit.”

  I wasn’t convinced.

  We talked about when we were younger, how we never drank as much as the youngsters do today. We remembered Stu’s 18th, when he had been to the pub with his mates for his first legal drink. They’d bought him home and left him stood with his nose pressed against the doorbell. My Dad had gone ballistic. We also remembered Mum and Dad opening the kitchen curtain
s one morning to find me asleep on the picnic table in the garden after a night out. But we agreed we’d never binged like they do today. As it got light, we realised we’d drunk three bottles of wine between us. When it got to a reasonable hour, with much embarrassment, I had to phone The Husband and ask him to come and pick me up. He wasn’t quite so understanding this time.

  Monday

  I was driving to work thinking about what kind of evils the day had in store for me, then remembered with a sinking feeling that I had blocked out the day in order to reconcile the monthly departmental sales bonus and direct costs figures - a torturous job which I despised. I wondered if I could delegate this task to one of the Team Managers - a good development opportunity for one of them. But which one?

  The Rock? Too busy. TLS? Too thick. The Drain? Would finish him off. Although, perhaps, that might be a good call...

  I gave myself a talking to as I passed the Little Chef. I had been reading a book entitled “How to Work With People You Can’t Stand”, or something like that and it had just covered the Circle of Influence. Basically, this said that if you see people in a certain way, you will behave in a certain way towards them and therefore you will get exactly what you expect. So I must choose to have positive thoughts about my colleagues, and therefore I will bring about a positive result. You reap what you sow. I selected an uplifting song from my iPod – What A Feeling from the film Flashdance. I parked up at work feeling ready to burst into the office brandishing welding irons, sparks flying as I twirled to my desk.

  I was preparing to start on the reports, when I received a phone call from The Drain, who said he was driving round and round the Chiltern roundabout as he could not face coming into work. The temptation to leave him doing this all day was extremely strong, but I resisted (great self-control) and told him to drive back home. Bugger it. That meant I was going to have to do his job as well as my own, and look after his team of moaning, whining cry-babies.

  Midday. The reports were nowhere near completed, following a steady stream of interruptions from colleagues, such as:

  “Kate, where shall I file this month’s quality figures?”

  “Try the file named Monthly Quality Figures.”

  “Kate, I don’t understand the email you sent me.”

  “Which one?”

  “Er, it was something to do with the new quotation process.”

  “Which bit didn’t you understand?”

  “Er, the bit at the beginning, and all the other bits...”

  “Have you actually read the email?”

  “Er, no, not really...”

  “Kate, Susi wants Thursday off as she’s competing in a kick boxing championship. What shall I say?”

  “Kick boxing? Bloody hell! Just agree it for Christ’s sake!”

  “Kate, Glynnis has put on her health and safety form that she finds the noise from the telephony teams disturbing. What shall I do?”

  “Glynnis? But isn’t she the deaf lady?”

  “Kate, are you busy?”

  “No of course not! I really don’t know how I’m managing to fill these fourteen hour days.”

  2.00 pm. I received an email from Tanya at Manchester saying she’d had a letter from Marcy appealing against her dismissal on the grounds of sexual harassment. You what? I phoned Tanya to see if I could find out any more. She told me that Marcy was gay and that’s why her marriage had broken down. I asked Tanya if she felt Marcy had any particular reason to make a claim of sexual harassment.

  “Goodness no, we’re quite used to her sort, we’ve got lots of dykey-types working here!” Oh God.

  I emailed details of the case to HR so they could appoint a manager to hear the appeal - it was out of my hands now.

  2.35 pm. Hissing Cyn slithered over to my desk. I could see the suggestion of a smile on her snake’s mouth so guessed someone had suffered some kind of misfortune.

  “I thought you ought to know that Joe Cooper has fallen asleep at his desk,” she hissed, very quietly, obviously enjoying the moment and not wanting to wake him until everyone had noticed. “He’s one of Martin’s new lads.” Fallen asleep? Were you telling him about yourself?

  “Try waking him up, then.”

  The Snake looked aghast, like I’d suggested slaughtering her first born.

  “I can’t do that, we’ve been taught that - as first aiders - it’s extremely dangerous to wake up colleagues. The shock could kill him.”

  “The shock of my boot up his arse will do that to him Cynthia, for God’s sake, what do you suggest we do - just let him have a nap? Shall I fetch him some pyjamas and a teddy bear? I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.” I was up and out of my seat before she could respond and I was bearing down on the dozing Joe when one of his quick-thinking colleagues rang his desk phone. His head jerked up and he looked around him in bewilderment until his red-rimmed eyes focused on my thunderous face, two inches from his own. “A word please, Joe.”

  The department fell silent as it always does for the Walk of Shame. This is when a colleague is escorted towards the meeting room. Sometimes they return, sometimes they don’t. I sat across the desk from Joe, who realising the seriousness of his situation, had begun to tremble.

  “Joe,” I began, very calmly I thought. “You were asleep at your desk.”

  “Really? I don’t think I was actually asleep was I? Just resting my eyes maybe. They get strained sometimes you know, with all this processing-”

  “You were asleep, Joe. At your desk. Why were you asleep?”

  “Well, I am very tired today. I got in very late last night you see, I met up with some friends in Cardiff, and I was driving back from Wales and the traffic on the Severn Bridge was just-”

  “I don’t want a travel report, Joe. Do you understand that one of the expectations of your role is that you are to remain awake whilst you are performing it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you understand that if you do not remain in a state of wakefulness, by that I mean not asleep, whilst you are at work again, you will be out on your arse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sign here.”

  I got Joe to sign a ROD (Record of Discussion), and as we had to do with all RODs, I emailed a copy to HR. I did change the wording from “out on your arse” to “will be dismissed” before I emailed it, to appear more professional.

  4.50 pm. I was still working on the reports. They wouldn’t balance. My hair was sticking up and my eyes were bloodshot and sore. I received a phone call from Sue, an HR advisor.

  “Hi Kate, I just wanted to discuss the ROD you sent through for Joe.”

  “Ok.” If I must.

  “It’s not particularly detailed, is it?”

  “What detail would you expect, Sue, for this particular scenario? He fell asleep at his desk, he agrees it was wrong, he understands the consequences if he does it again. Job done.”

  “Well, that’s a very simplistic view of course.” You patronising cow. “I would have expected there to have been a thorough exploration of why Joe fell asleep.”

  “A detailed exploration? He got in late last night!”

  “You know, he may have been feeling unwell...”

  “He wasn’t unwell, he just got in late.”

  “Or perhaps he has some personal issues that he is dealing with.”

  “No, he hasn’t, he just GOT IN LATE.”

  “There’s no need to shout at me. You should at least have made sure he has the colleague counselling number,” Should I have wiped his arse for him as well? “plus evidence that he understands the procedures he has breached; you should have issued him with a copy of those procedures.”

  “Procedures for what exactly? Show me those procedures that state that colleagues must remain awake - they don’t exist! It’s taken as a given that falling asleep is VERY WRONG.”

  “You’re shouting again. So will you complete another ROD with Joe containing this detail and email it to me? When can I expect it?”r />
  “When? I’ll tell you when shall I? When hell freezes over, that’s when! Stop wasting my time Sue, and go back to your knitting. I’ve got a department to run, you know, you may have heard of them - a department with real customers to look after. They call us, expecting to discuss their policies with advisors who are actually awake. That may seem mad to you guys in HR: perhaps you think I should go round to each one of my hundred staff every day to see if they’d mind awfully staying conscious for their shift, that’s if it’s not too much trouble. And if they happen to nod off, I’ll offer them some counselling shall I, or fetch them one of your fluffy bunnies perhaps-”

  The line went dead. Sue had hung up. I didn’t blame her – I wouldn’t want to speak with a ranting, demented lunatic either. I hardly recognised myself anymore; surely this wasn’t the real me? I never used to shout at my colleagues, not even the ones in IT. When had I become so intolerant? I must try harder. I must be more understanding.

  7 pm. The reports still wouldn’t balance. Brain was fried and the noise from the hoover was driving me insane. Decided to pack it all up and take it home. I’m sure it will make more sense after thirteen V&Ts.

  11.40 pm. I am sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by reams of reports which won’t balance, a (now broken) calculator and an empty vodka bottle. The Husband has gone to bed, after not offering to help, even though as a financial advisor, he is supposed to be very good with figures. And the fence is still broken.

  Wednesday

  I finally got the reports submitted. I had to email copies to The Boss. He emailed back to ask me if I’d calculated my own bonus this quarter. No, that’s your job! I replied not. He emailed again asking me to calculate what it should be and to let him know so he could submit it. I’ll do your job as well as mine then, shall I? I worked it out as £412.80 and sent that figure to him. When I got home, the fence panels had been fixed and the invoice was lying on the doormat. It was for £418.50. Great.

  Friday morning

  The Boss phoned. He was on his way to Manchester to hear Marcy’s appeal against her dismissal. He wanted some background information, saying he’d phoned Marcy to check she was still ok for the meeting and she had seemed like “a really nice lady”. Uh-oh. I told him about my meeting, tactfully saying that it was all documented in the case notes. He said he hadn’t had time to read the notes but was trying to look through them whenever he stopped at traffic lights. I tried to tell him about her personality change, but I’m not at all sure he was listening, given that whilst I was speaking he shouted “Get a bloody move on you tosspot, you could get a sodding bus through there!” followed by several angry blasts on the horn.

  Friday afternoon

  Tanya from Manchester called to let me know what had happened at Marcy’s appeal. Marcy had started the meeting all smiles and had said she was very sorry and embarrassed to have to make this claim. She’d said she felt that several of her colleagues were extremely homophobic, and she’d had to put up with comments such as: “It’s dress down tomorrow Marcy, don’t forget your dungarees!” and “You’d better cut your finger nails Marcy; you’ll never get a girlfriend with those talons!”

  The Boss had said he was extremely sorry to hear that, however he struggled to see why that would contribute to her persistent lateness. At the end of the meeting, he upheld the decision to dismiss Marcy. Apparently at this point, all hell let loose.

  Marcy had stood up and turned the table over on top of The Boss, scattering his files all over the floor and tipping his coffee into his lap. She then sat down in front of the door to the meeting room, refusing to move until The Boss reconsidered or agreed to foster her five children. He had to call security for help, but according to Tanya, it took him ages to get through to the security team as he was held in a queue, having to listen to a recorded message which told him his call was important to them.

  When they got there, it took four of them to force the door open and remove her. She’d hung onto the door frame, screaming “Child murderer!” at The Boss. They’d had to prise her fingers open one by one. Bloody hell. I drove home half expecting to find Marcy on my doorstep with her five starving children in tow. That would really give The Husband something to moan about.

  Chapter Thirteen