a guilty admission
Before I give up and come home sick I spend the morning on release from teaching. It's my once-a-fortnight reward for the psychopathic beginning of the week. I really really need a refresher on the beauties of positive reinforcement, but I digress.
I sit in an office, at a desk. I have a telephone, and an internet connection upon which I can check my email. I don't actually get any email (well, OK, one) but the being able to check feels like enormous luxury. These are background details, they do not fill my morning. What fills my morning is writing a list of stuff what I have done (in an attempt to persuade my head that indeed I should go up the payscale), and collating several sets of information from a couple of forms which I sent out to staff at the end of last term. In both cases I read a few things, write some notes, then produce a document. I also sort through a three inch heap of paperwork and put it into several different folders.
It makes me feel fabulously productive, in a way which teaching and marking books never quite does. I have organised, I have implemented, and I have achieved. Even though my head is so thick and fuzzy that when I try to save something to the desktop I can't work out from the pop-up window where the desktop actually is. (Erialc - 'You're on it already?)
I have this strange talent for producing pieces of paper. For writing letters. For creating succinct forms. For passing out information, collecting other bits in again and then squeezing it down into readable digestable useful documents. I love doing it. I could do it all day. I am a paperwork queen, despite the fact I find it virtually impossible to read beyond the first paragraph of most memos that I get (this admittedly is because they are often so badly written that I lose the will to live by the time I reach the second sentence). I feel bad about it but I like it much, much more than teaching.
I wish I had a job doing stuff like that all day. I wish I knew what job that was, because if I did, I'd be trying really hard to be one.
I sit in an office, at a desk. I have a telephone, and an internet connection upon which I can check my email. I don't actually get any email (well, OK, one) but the being able to check feels like enormous luxury. These are background details, they do not fill my morning. What fills my morning is writing a list of stuff what I have done (in an attempt to persuade my head that indeed I should go up the payscale), and collating several sets of information from a couple of forms which I sent out to staff at the end of last term. In both cases I read a few things, write some notes, then produce a document. I also sort through a three inch heap of paperwork and put it into several different folders.
It makes me feel fabulously productive, in a way which teaching and marking books never quite does. I have organised, I have implemented, and I have achieved. Even though my head is so thick and fuzzy that when I try to save something to the desktop I can't work out from the pop-up window where the desktop actually is. (Erialc - 'You're on it already?)
I have this strange talent for producing pieces of paper. For writing letters. For creating succinct forms. For passing out information, collecting other bits in again and then squeezing it down into readable digestable useful documents. I love doing it. I could do it all day. I am a paperwork queen, despite the fact I find it virtually impossible to read beyond the first paragraph of most memos that I get (this admittedly is because they are often so badly written that I lose the will to live by the time I reach the second sentence). I feel bad about it but I like it much, much more than teaching.
I wish I had a job doing stuff like that all day. I wish I knew what job that was, because if I did, I'd be trying really hard to be one.
Labels: work
posted by Cheerful One at 5:10 pm
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