Despite
what my employer thinks, and we’ll come to that anon, I’m no medical expert,
though I can declare without fear of contradiction that COVID-19 is able to
leap from humans to shape shifting lizards, as demonstrated by Big Ears (aka The
Ponce of Wales) being incapacitated by the virus. The probable infection of the
swivel-eyed, Brown Jenkin Dominic Cummings suggests also that coronavirus may
live in the ideological sewers inhabited by the far right think tanks. It
remains a mystery to me why the feral demagogue has not been pursued through
the streets by the common multitudes and thence required to face a fate almost
grisly as Vlad the Implaer, Rasputin and Mussolini combined. We can but hope,
though we may see that karma, unwilling to allow the farcical and vainglorious
herd immunity horseshit policy pressed on uneasy medics by the loathsome
Cummings, has its eyes on the top prize. At the time of writing, our estimable
First Lord of the Treasury BoJo is sucking on an O2 tube in a private intensive
care bed. By my reckoning, that’s a bad choice as, without a doubt, I’d have
been pumping pure Carbon Monoxide into his system. Don’t despair though; Ian
Duncan Smith has declared the Honourable Member for Uxbridge to be fit for
work.
Let’s
be clear about this, the COVID-19 pandemic is, despite my earlier schadenfreude at the expense of poorly
toffs, a class issue as well as a medical one. Those most likely to die are the
economically and socially vulnerable, either forced to stay at work because of
their economic needs, albeit dressed up in the offensive repetition of specious
key worker rhetoric spewed forth by the ruling elite that dares suggests a
round of applause every other Thursday makes up for the lack of adequate PPE in
the workplace. Not only this, key workers are statistically far more likely to
be forced to endure inadequate social distancing on public transport, at work
and in the home. Witness Dr Catherine Calderwood giving the most ineffective
display of hand wringing in Fife since the Thane of Cawdor’s better half
suffered a bout of guilt driven PTSD, after being spotted weekending in her
second home.
The
middle class 4x4 drivers who flocked to see the Greatest Hits of the National
Trust a fortnight back have been replaced as folk devils in popular culture by
those in the parks and open spaces of Greater London. Why are they there? Well,
I’d imagine in 99% of cases, they don’t have 80ft terraced south facing gardens
with mature lawns; they live, often in overcrowded conditions, where social
distancing is only possible in the bog or bathroom. Self-isolation in such circumstances is
either impossible, meaning whole (often extended) families stuck on top of each
other, or requires one or more occupant, most often crucial breadwinners, to
sofa surf with friends or relatives to keep the household afloat. Even the
supposed boon of working from home, when possible, is not the panacea for
working class households it is for the middle classes. There are kids to look
after, either stir crazy ankle biters home from nursery or archetypal bored
teenagers who fail to comprehend, deliberately of course, why they can’t
congregate with 50 pals in the park, meals to make and the worry of ageing
parents, either isolated alone or taking up space in an already crowded house.
Speaking
personally, which of course entails being selfish, working from home came at
exactly the right time, Wednesday 25th March, as the inability and
disinclination of my employer to do anything other than pay lip service to the
Health and Safety aspects of social distancing, was causing me severe anxiety
which, many of you will know, I have suffered from for a good few years now and
is a constant impediment to so much of my life when things are normal, never
mind during an unprecedented lockdown amidst a frightening global pandemic. The
chance to have time indoors with my partner Laura and our 3 wonderful cats,
with a soundtrack of Mogwai and Godspeed You! Black Emperor as I worked, was
richly appreciated, especially as in the days before home working, our overall
boss appeared to be going completely off her rocker, meaning going into work
often felt like taking a seat on the top floor of a double decker where the
driver was pissed and blindfolded., communicating via daily emails that could have been sent from the US Embassy in
Saigon in spring 75…
As
you can no doubt imagine, I was delighted to remove myself from the
unbalanced stewardship of a cross between Nurse Ratchett and King Lear on the
heath. Indeed, everything was going smoothly from home until I took a call from
my big boss, who is second rung in the elite praesidium and malicious rather
than mad in temperament. She phoned to
tell me that, after “an audit” of my “skill set,” I had been “identified” as
the “most appropriate” member of my “team” for “temporary redeployment.” To
come to “this decision” there was apparently a “skills matrix” applied.
Typically, there is no access to this matrix, not that I wish to see anyone
else’s scores of course. No choice. No
appeal. Get back into Castle Covid at 9.00, or go sick. Also, despite the fact
I don’t drive and neither does Laura, bring your IT kit in with you. The very
idea of fetching 2 screens and a base unit, with associated wiring, either on
the bike, on public transport or in a taxi was a complete non-starter. Number
one; I couldn’t carry the stuff. Number two; I’m not putting my health at risk
by taking public transport. Number three; I’m not shelling out just shy of £20
for a cab to bring their gear back. Being honest, I can’t live off £95 a week
SSP so, while it seems that I am undoubtedly putting my life at risk by mixing
with the proponents of a fetid brew of exhaled viral spores, I am unable to do
anything else.
Without
a shadow of a doubt my employer is a greedy and rapacious vehicle, for squalid
venture capitalists that unapologetically treat their staff like laboratory
rats at the best of times, in order to get rich men inestimably richer by the
day. Employees are seen as worthless scum.
The problem for those of us in our workplace who are on the left and wish
to unionise is that the vast majority of our fellow workers are predominantly
docile, compliant and often transient; or all 3. Call it false consciousness,
anomie or hegemony; the fact is they’ll happily accept some of the most
atrocious contractual and non-contractual privations without batting an eyelid.
A
recent and presciently signed megabucks contract to provide non-clinical
support for NHS 111 is proving more than lucrative for my employer. The coronavirus pandemic is enabling them to
bathe in money, partially on account of their strategy of taking on hundreds of
new hires, often under 18 year old college and 6th form youngsters cast adrift
by the abolition of education. Daft
radgie lads in US sweats or Stone Island apparel who still reel at the complexity
of a compulsory
hand sanitising regime and Insta influenced lasses with dirty hair, fake tan,
false nails, en flick eyelashes and painted brows that remind me of Donald and
Davie Stott. Their exploitative
overlords are scandalously paying these poor bairns £5.82 an hour, while
telling the NHS it is actually £10 an hour, as well as claiming a training
premium. I was told my “training” would last 4 hours. It took a quarter of that
to go through a set of PowerPoint slides that contained the “diagnostic” spiel
I have to repeat. I was amused to learn
that the overall boss (her of the emails) has taken bad with COVID-19 symptoms.
Other
than the fact it appears that my chances of dying prematurely of COVID-19 have
increased markedly, I do not particularly object to my redeployment; for one
thing it is 50p an hour more in wages (ten bob is ten bob after all) and for
another, harking back to old fashioned, properly unionised days, as the last
one appointed to my section, I morally ought to be the first one out. However,
which is where it all gets grubby and offensive, we come to the crux of the
matter; my employer is, in my belief, discriminating against me under the terms
of the Equalities Act. To be blunt, I have suffered with intermittent bouts of
depression since 1981, which can be medically attested to. In addition I have
suffered constant anxiety since 2014. I take medication to control both
conditions which medical members of the Occupational Health unit at Tyne Coast
College declared they believe to cover me under the Equality Act. Indeed, in
2015 I was classed as a vulnerable adult by a practitioner psychologist in the
Newcastle Community Mental Health team. Sending me back to work in a building
that has inadequate social distancing has ramped up my anxiety levels enormously.
It is the equivalent of sending a claustrophobic to work in a drift mine.
After
finding out about the decision to redeploy me , on Friday 2nd April, I
contacted CWU Amalgamated Newcastle branch secretary Mark Hugall, who advised
me to contact the HR Manager at graft to request reasonable adjustments; specifically,
to allow me to work from home as I find the idea of setting foot back inside
the building absolutely terrifying. I did so by email. Suffice to say my
request was rejected out of hand, with the observation I should follow normal
absence procedures on Monday if I don’t feel capable of attending work. I can’t
afford to eat the cake suggested, as I’m economically unable to live off SSP or
worse, claim Universal Credit, having had experience of doing so in summer
2108, which left me reliant on the Newcastle East Food Bank.
I
went to work on the Monday, had my hour and a bit of training (call me Dr
Cusack), then started on the phones. The script I read from is designed to come
up with 5 possible outcomes. Only two of them involve any clinical input; if a
client metaphorically ticks the boxes, I can refer them to either a Nurse or to
the Emergency Services. The other three options require me to provide endpoint
advice. The only option I am happy with is the Isolation Note, a kind of 2 week
sick note for those who’ve had a week self-isolating and are either recovering
or a bit poorly. If your boss pays you full wages when you’re off sick, I’d
advise everyone to apply for this.
Finally,
there are two options I do not feel comfortable with at all. Firstly, I can
tell someone they don’t appear to have COVID-19 and should carry on as near to
normal as they can. Secondly, I can tell someone they probably have COVID-19
and should self-isolate. I am not
qualified to make such decisions. As well as potentially putting my life at
risk by attending work, I am potentially putting the lives of many of my fellow
citizens at risk by making judgements I do not have the skills or even the
right to make.
That,
far more than a few picnic hampers in a park or surfers on a beach, scares the
shit out of me almost as much as coronavirus does.
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