Mother’s December pay slip arrived and guess what? September’s special duty pay wasn’t on it.
Mother has now threatened the pay office that if it isn’t in her bank account by close of business in the 31st December she will take out a formal grievance against them. She has waited long enough. She is a donkey on the edge. Do not mess with a woman who is pretending to be a character from Shrek.
If the pay people weren’t in Southampton, she would go and sit on the doorstep until they gave her a cheque.
She is of the opinion that people who handle NHS pay are a bit thick. If Mother decided to withhold treatment from patients, she’d soon get the sack.
Watch this space to see if the thickos can prove Mother wrong…….
Merry Christmas to all my loyal fans. Hope you have had a wonderful day.
I have had lots of pressies, including 7 thousand lick-e-liks – a yummy yoghurt based sauce type thing. OK, I have exaggerated a bit, I’ve now got 16 boxes (which Mother says equals 80 sticks) but they won’t last me long when I get going on them.
Mother is now on day 887 of RetireWatch (a bit like Spring Watch but without Bill Oddie and otters). She and Aunty Jan-Jan are going to have celebratory milestone parties at the 500, 200 and 100 day mark, followed by the burning of the uniforms and an effigy of an NHS manager on day zero. Aunty is a bit older than Mother so we’re having these celebrations once each.
People say that Mother is wishing her life away but she isn’t really. She can face mortality. Her funeral plan is to be cremated, get surreptitiously scattered into the food of all the bastards who’ve ever made her life a misery and sit on a cloud watching the buggers choke……
The car has had its Christmas present – a wash. Mother took it it the garage yesterday to diagnose the strange noise. It turned out a screw was loose ?!**Oh the irony……
However, the brake pads were 90% worn and the front tyres were 0.4mm off the legal limit, so they had to be fixed. In the end the car wash cost £200…
In the paper today, Jermy Hunt (the Health Minister and yes I know I’ve spelled it wrong but it is appropriate), says that every patient in hospital is to have a named nurse and doctor. Now, Mother hasn’t worked in a large institution for some time, but she can remember this little fiasco. In reality, the patient doesn’t get a named nurse at all – the bed (or rather the bed space) does. In fact, the lucky bed gets a whole raft of ‘named nurses’ just in case the person at the top of the list is having a day off. There is something that Jermy needs to address though:
You are desperate for a pee. You hail a passing professional. She shouts ‘I’m not your nurse’ (or even worse ‘you’re not my patient’). Several hours later you’ve wet yourself.
Into this same scenario insert – relative wants to ask about a patient’s care; senior nurse want to know which patients you are going to discharge; paper boy wants to know who to deliver the Daily Mail to….You get the drift. We spy another cock-up coming…..
By the way, thanks to that pesky leap year, Mother’s retirement calculations were a day out. So, today is 888 days to go.
Nothing like having something to look forward to……..
A long time ago (last week) there were 3 wise nurses who worked nights. Although not technically midwives (and not, therefore, expected to get involved in the business end of the Christmas story), they thought that they would like to go to see the sprog when it arrived and take it a small gift. Nurse 1, a kind and gentle soul, bought a fluffy bunny. Nurse 2, a practical no-nonsense type bought a snow shovel for the Messiah to use when the 4×4 doesn’t turn up. Nurse 3, who likes kids but couldn’t eat a whole one, bought herself a box of tissues, for she had rather a nasty infection and did not want to grot on the child.
Off they went into the night and found the child ensconced in the Travelodge. However, no-one would let them in until, after about two hours, the child needed its nappy changed. After shifting the pooh, they were asked to leave the premises, dragging their gifts behind them
Which proves that, no matter how good your intentions are there is always a possibility that you will get shit on from a large height……
Happy Christmas to all Mother’s hard working colleagues. Better luck next year……
And, as Mother says, it’s only 888 days to retirement (or is that one of those bingo sites)…..
Mother broke up from work for 10 days off over Christmas on Wednesday morning. She has been ill in bed since Friday. Fortunately all the Christmas preparation had been done but the car is being investigated for a strange noise tomorrow and unless it drives itself to the garage it doesn’t look like it’s going. Unless Uncle Andy can come to the rescue….If not it will have to rattle away til the New Year.
Let’s hope the wheels don’t drop off…..
Because of all the windy weather, Mother has had to fetch the bin back from Kansas, unaided by me as I was doing my cowardly lion impression with my head buried under the duvet. Well, nobody pays me danger money, so I ain’t risking my life….
Apparently, according to the WordPress stats, over the weekend I had more than 200 views of my gloriously witty and well written blog. From 3 people. So that’s either a mistake or there are 3 poor souls with goldfish brains out there who had nothing better to do with their time……..
Mother has had word that the missing wages will find their way into her account by December pay day. It’s a good job she doesn’t get paid in £1 coins – she would have to hire a dumper truck to get the buggers home if she did.
Mother has been on leave this week and has taken the opportunity to sort Christmas out. Pressies were bought by the end of November, tree’s up, cards have been written and posted – just the dreaded present wrapping to go. I get banned from the room when that happens just in case I disappear in a sheet of bubble wrap and get posted to Great Auntie Gertie….