No, I won't be coming in on my day off with zero notice and on basic rate.

No, I won't be booking myself a taxi to come in, at my own expense, to 'help out' again.

No, I won't take responsibility for your failure to appropriately train and manage your staff.

I know this will surprise you because I've always helped you out in the past, but you can't do anything about it. So I'm off back to bed.

Query of the Week

I do genuinely try to sort out the customer queries that come up from our call centre, but sometimes customer idiocy knows no bounds. Particularly given that 90% of our customer are business professionals with qualifications that I can't even spell.

Thus did I goggle at the following over my morning brew today :

'Customer had £96,000.00 sent to him in March 2005. Can you write to him and confirm the account it was sent to, because he can't remember where he's put it.'

Waiting III

The next line is outside the prison gates. I'm rubbish at estimating height, but these things are higher than the second day of Woodstock.

The names are called again, and we are led through a smaller door inset in the main gate. And into a small building to join the next queue. This queue is for searches and photographing of male visitors. Once photographed, male visitors are issued a bar coded card which they must keep with them at all times during the visit. This is to prevent attempts at cunning identity swap escape schemes.

The three of us go in to be searched together. I'm surprised by how cursory it is. The officers carrying out the searches are pleasant and friendly.

Officer "Don't loose that card"
My Mate "I won't"
Officer " We accidentally scared a lad half to death last week. He couldn't find his card when it came to the end of the visit. So I told him we'd have to find him a cell overnight while we verified his identity. I was only joking, but he believed me. Took us ages to calm him down..."

And so we pass though the last door to the visit room. But it's not a room, it's a a place the size of two tennis courts, full of faces hoping their visitors have made it in.

Waiting II

I'm standing outside the visitors reception centre. We've been waiting for an hour, arriving long before the door will be opened, but that's the protocol.

The high green gate to my left shudders as a smaller gate set into it is opened. The officer walks to the front of the line and opens the door.

We're fifth in line - this is good. It means we'll be taken across to the prison in the first group, meaning we will get the full two hours of the visit. There's a rough depreciation - first group - no time lost, second group - 15 minutes lost, third group, 30 minutes lost and so on.

We follow the officer through the door and join the second queue. There isn't enough space, so everyone is crushed against a stranger. We get to the little window, hand in the Visiting Order and proceed to show our I.D. We are nodded on to wait in the holding area and use the lockers and toilets.

To pass the time while we wait to join the third queue, I begin to count the notices on the wall. I loose track at 44. A lot of them are addressed to prisoners - given that no-one serving will ever step in here, it seems that the dire warnings are just there to fill space.

It's coming up to 1pm, so we put bags, coats, hats, phones and so on into the locker. We are allowed to enter the prison only in indoor clothers and shoes, carrying only £5 in silver and the key to the locker.

The names of eight prisoners are shouted and there's a shuffle as people in different parts of the room stand, collect their kids. Then we all wait to join the next line.

Innerspace - part I

First off, call me daft, but this made me really quite sad: Pharmacists Defence Association

How have things got so bad that pharmacists have a union with a name like that? I know that unions are there to attempt to defend workers in all fields, but seriously, how under attack must they feel to need the word 'defence' as part of a name.

I'm aware that in recent years pharmacists have been pushed into taking on more and more duties, having consultation rooms on premises and so on - see The Welsh Pharmacist for a few cracking examples - but the name of the union says it all.

I had a capsule endoscopy last week. I think this is fantastic, non invasive relativley low risk test. But it's damn expensive, so my PCT view it as something of a last resort of all other methods have failed.

The first hiccup came with the instructions for the pre-test preperation regime. It would appear that a member of non-clinical staff has taken it upon themselves to amend this information.When I say 'amend' what I mean is 'balls-up'. Basic prep for any kind of internal camera is roughly breakfast the morning before test, light snack mid morning, clear fluids from midday and nil by mouth from midnight. It's a good job I know that, as the new leaflet advised me to have breakfast on the morning of the test and then go clear fluids during the test and nil by mouth after the test.

So I'm guessing there will have been a few people sent home recently, because good as the capsule technology is, it can't stand up to a full english.

So I turn up at the unit, get wired up and ingest the camera. So far so good. On checking with the nurse, she thinks that as I am off all meds, transit time should be fairly rapid, 6 to 8 hours.

So I settle down and wait.

Hiatus

As you cannot fail to have noticed, I had taken a little break from blogging, more as precaution than anything else. This was primarily because the industry I work in has been under some, er 'media pressure' in recent months and I thought it wise to keep my head down.

But now I know I won't be getting made redundant (dammit, there goes the money I'd mentally already spent) I think it's pretty much clear to start up again.

All I will say today is that I've been very good at work. I haven't sent out a mass mailing reminding people that borrowing money is a privilege, not a right.

Intervention

I've had this one on ice for a while, because I couldn't decide if it made me sad or angry.

One Saturday in the summer, I was out shopping and called in to a cafe (it has 'restaurant' in it's title, but it really isn't) for a sneaky sausage and egg concoction.

As I find my table I notice a guy in the corner. He has the 'unwell' look of someone who maybe drinks too much, and doesn't have a permanent residence. His clothes are unkempt and he is unshaven, hair unwashed for a while, but with that suggestion that he's not all that dirty, so not a street drinker or rough sleeper.

He has his head down but his eyes are darting up frequently, scanning everything going on around him. His shoulders are rolled forward and he is repeatedly rearranging the items in front of him. My 'menatalhealth-ometer' pings.

I sit down, eat, drink, read the paper. As I'm finishing, two girls sit down behind me. Giggly teenagers in their best gear, lovely and hopeful for the day.

Second pass. There is a blur in my peripheral vision, a scream and chairs crashing. As I turn, I see two girls, mouths open after the initial scream, hot coffee covering them and their table, they are beginning to shake visibly with the onset of shock.

The man is a few strides away - but he's coming back, shouting.

"Don't look at me. That's what you get for looking at me..." becoming incoherent with rage. I put myself between him and the girls, arms outstretched, facing the girls telling them he won't come near them. Behind me, a man has got up and is restraining the shouter gently, calming him, talking soothingly.

Restraining guy begins to move the man away from the girls, who are now backed up to the window, crying and crouched. I speak to them, try to get them away from the window - a crowd of onlookers is gathering in the street outside, enjoying the morning show.

The manager makes his way over. As I get the girls sat down, the man is ejected.

The police and paramedics are called. They take over - they are good at their job, and after leaving my details, I go outside and take some deep breaths, have a fag, calm down.

I remember it all clearly, which is good, because two months later, the police call me to ask me to give a statement.

And what I remember, above all, is this.

The three big young guys at the table across from me haven't moved. Neither have any of the staff who are only feet away. The group of twentysomethings two tables away haven't moved.

The two people who have are me, five foot nothing and eight stone, and a guy of sixty two.