More people are choosing to work through chronic illness rather than sit at home which makes people taking time off for the now officially confirmed illness of ManFlu look a little lightweight. If an employee is chronically ill and off work the National Health Service, or at least what remains of the NHS, advises employers to be proactive.
Specific changes to a working environment mean advances in treatment to support an ageing population more people with a long-term condition are able to work. NHS suggests changes to working hours, allowing more breaks, providing specific equipment or even a phased return to work after a prolonged absence to help both parties. If there are off work then developing a formal return-to-work plan with adjusted performance targets or redistributing work means the enormity of returning to work can be properly managed. Most employers I’ve worked for have been pretty good; a colleague recovering from cancer spent time in the transport office with reduced hours, another started limited day work to make hospital appointments. I am not sure what contingency plan is in place for the newly confirmed diagnosis of ManFlu but it’ll need one if Big Dave is anything to go by. Despite his appearance as a large brown bear wearing hi-vis the slightest hint of a sniffle sees him take to his bed. His former wife liked to tell anyone who will listen about the time Big Dave felt lightheaded, stopped at the nearest layby and crawled onto the bottom bunk and remained there for 24 hours. Despite several calls to his rudimentary mobile phone (AKA the brick) from work he could not be roused. Recovering enough to limp to a garage to buy several hard-core free-over-the-counter drugs he inched his way home, parked the truck just inside the entrance of the yard and went home. It was only Wednesday. None too pleased his boss issued Big Dave with an official warning. This prompted a petulant departure to a more ‘understanding’ employer, as Big Dave later put it down the pub. Fossil, on the other hand, was made of sterner stuff. Weighing little more than a bag of sugar and living off a diet of smokes, chocolate and beer, his constitution rivalled that of a rock. He spent a week roping and sheeting with a broken wrist rather than go to accident and emergency and cause a fuss. I fall somewhere in-between. I did take a week off after pulling my hamstring while running the line for Sunday morning perennial underdogs Dynamo Red Dragon FC. I was 46 at the time and should have known better than try to keep up with play. I actually had to show the boss the bruise to quell any doubts. A bad back on the other hand is difficult to diagnose unless an X-ray reveals structural damage. Symptoms described by the patient can centre on muscle spasms or ligament damage with no surface markings, these injuries are tough to counter as Baz knew only too well. He returned one evening and gingerly made his way out of the truck and across the yard with the speed of a tortoise. ‘Bad back’ was diagnosed the following day by a doctor. If the transport office hoped for a swift conclusion they were sorely mistaken. A second month on the sick led to bosses voicing concern. I am not condoning a malingerer or supporting a draconian attitude towards anyone legitimately sick but we all know bosses who get funny about paying out for nowt. Baz was a victim of change, when the Statutory Sick Pay Act 1994 was rewritten removing the right of companies to recover 80% of the Statutory Sick Pay from government if that company did not qualify for small employers' relief. Our employer at the time, several name changes away from its acronym today, was a sizable concern and could no longer recoup the bulk of what it paid out to the incapacitated Baz. The money was going to come out of the company pocket as it had no contingency plan. The first we heard of Baz’s comeuppance was when the local newspaper ran a small but brief story about Barry Jenkins (name changed to protect the deceased) at an employment tribunal charged with a type of SSP fraud after he’d been caught at a car boot sale looking particularly spry despite being off work with a bad back. He pleaded guilty and was fined. So, I guess my point is that it works both ways. Big Dave cannot stomach a cold whereas Fossil would probably come in Christmas day after having his gall bladder removed before breakfast. NHS advice for employees on working with a long-term medical condition acknowledges that continuing to work is not always appropriate but being upfront with the boss about your situation smooths future relations. Now, where is the Lemsip?
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Ever been sent out in the dead of night on Christmas Eve to stock up on milk, bread and cigarettes? Spare a thought during the festive mayhem and raise a glass to those who helped made it happen, the retail multi-drop lorry drivers. ‘Oh, the weather outside is frightful’, declares the radio as I manoeuvre the truck into the middle lane and halt at yet another red light at yet another crossroads in the city centre. It’s gone noon and there are still several more drops to make.
‘But the fire is so delightful’. Cars sit astride the yellow box blocking the junction as shopper’s inch forward seeking socks, deodorant and talcum powder for a hazily recalled nephew. Another round of horns and insults fill the air. The light turns green. No one moves. ‘And since we've got no place to go’. Dean Martin’s words are prophetic. The light goes back to red. The lights go green. This time we move forward and on to the next drop. Dino gears up for the crescendo of the chorus… ‘Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!’ God, no, don’t let it snow. Mind you, it wouldn’t make any difference; we’re at snail’s pace now. Back in the cab having dropped off more of life’s necessities – food, drink, fags – to a garage forecourt I subconsciously acknowledge that in a few days the drunk and disorderly will be popping in for essentials not knowing the sacrifice I have made to get the stuff there. “I am the fifth emergency service!” I declare, silently. Yes, it’s Christmas. ‘Are you hanging up a stocking on your wall?’ Noddy Holder has replaced the Rat Pack legend as I double-park on a side street to deliver to a corner shop. The owner is upset. I am late. He tells me as much. A car horn confirms my wayward parking is stopping a Christmas shopper getting out of the cul-de-sac. Arkwright delays signing the paperwork to make a few more salient points then I am out the door and back in the truck. Three drops to go. ‘It's the time that every Santa has a ball’. The next two deliveries pass off peacefully; both shop owners thankful the stuff has arrived. One drop left. ‘Does he ride a red-nosed reindeer?’ I roll the last empty cage back onto the tail-lift. It’s about two-thirty. A reindeer might be my best chance of getting home in a reasonable time. I’ve been up since three, on the road since four. I’ve done more drops than Santa. Not likely to be back before four. I’m knackered. I switch off the radio, light a choke and set off for the yard. Geoff, the transport manager, is marching around fire-fighting. We’ve been at it for almost two-months delivering festive goodies to shops, forecourts and markets. Each working day is at least 12 or more hours of driving, lifting and carrying. Food is eaten between deliveries or not at all. People are tired and tetchy. Each truck that goes out is chockfull. Extra loads are stuffed into the cab’s footwell. Geoff and a forklift driver kick off over loading a pallet. It ends as soon as it starts. Daz rolls in with just one wing mirror. Geoff phones the local dealer then remonstrates with Daz. “F*** me! Why didn’t you f****** tell me sooner? , I could’ve f****** got one f****** sorted!” This particular Christmas, my last at the company, falls on a Wednesday. Deliveries on Christmas Eve, back in on the Friday then through to New Year’s Eve. I left for a more sedate way of life tramping with a company that closed for 10 days over Christmas and New Year. It took me a while to handle the extra downtime. For a while I wore rose-tinted glasses remembering how I’d be run ragged, the crisis-management…I felt alive. Then I’d see one of the 17-tonners thundering down the road, in a constant rush, and reality would return. It was a thankless job. Yet, there is something that sticks. When I go out for some rations, perhaps a packet of crisps late on Boxing Day to help soak up the alcohol, I know what went into getting that packet of crisps to the shop before Christmas. I acknowledge the sacrifice of the multi-drop drivers, if only briefly. ‘So here it is Merry Christmas, everybody's having fun. Look to the future now. It's only just begun.’ |
AuthorAging proletariat with face, teeth and body to prove it. Archives
August 2021
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