Well, I finally had enough of the temporary work today. Strictly speaking, I’d had enough a long time ago, but decided to hang on in there while my main work was in the doldrums. It hasn’t yet built up to where it should be but is sufficiently on the cusp to make the decision I made today.
The problem for me is that I don’t much like driving, so temping as a driver is a bit of a bummer to start with. Add to that, the running about trying to find places, then trying to find somewhere to park, manoeuvring a large vehicle in confined spaces and the interminable traffic and it all adds up to more stress than a little over the minimum wage is worth. So, when I did a trip to Exeter the other week, I was on the point of saying enough is enough.
A call yesterday to do a trip to Bridgwater today was elicited out of me against my better judgement. Frankie suggested to me at around four o’clock this morning that if I felt that bad, I should phone in sick. My displeasure must have been that obvious… But phone who? At that time in the morning, I had no idea who I would contact – besides, it would mean letting people down. So, reluctantly, I went to Avonmouth and presented myself to the client.
From then on in, it was downhill. Trying to find someone who would take some responsibility to start with was difficult enough – so I was sent from one end of the warehouse to the other and back again. Not auspicious and guaranteed to lower my humour readings by several kelvin. Then it was out to the van. I was handed sheets of invoices with the delivery details and a van full of boxes.
Now, you would think that a company using an agency driver would help a little by loading the vehicle in such a way that the clients’ orders were easily identifiable. Well, all the previous clients I’d delivered for did. Previous clients also printed off local maps to help with navigation. Not that I needed this as I use my GPS, but it is a sensible thing to do. Oh, to make my mood deteriorate further, the trip to Bridgwater was now Bridgwater and the Forest of Dean. Bridgwater is about 50 miles south of Bristol and the Forest of Dean is about 30 – 40 miles north of Bristol – that’s right, they are in opposite directions. It is just asking for trouble to have a delivery round that starts and finishes about 100 miles apart in opposite directions.
An accident on the motorway lost me an hour before I’d made much headway, so the downhill run was accelerating alarmingly and my mood plummeted to minus kelvin values.
When I go to the first drop I realised just what I’d let myself in for. Six sheets of invoices aligned to numerous boxes that were stacked in the van somewhere – along with everyone elses orders. I spent two hours churning over boxes of frozen foods, digging out the order, getting mixed up and traipsing up and down two flights of stairs. The shop receiving the order didn’t make anyone available to help me check off the goods, and it is entirely possible that I made mistakes – after two hours, I was tired, fed up and couldn’t care less anyway. If they cared enough, they would have made the time to check as I unloaded. They didn’t, so too bad. It was only a sense of duty that made me carry on to the other clients in the vicinity. I nearly called it a day there and then – it was a close run thing.
These two were relatively simple, so sorting out the invoices to goods was not as onerous as the first drop. Nonetheless, there were items on the invoice that were not in the van – I suspect that they were at the first drop. There were also items in the van that didn’t correspond to invoices, strengthening my suspicion that the first drop had turned to ratshit.
Heading north on the motorway to the next drop in the Forest of Dean – past the depot by about 40 miles, I realised that I had neither the inclination nor the time to complete this round of deliveries. I’d been on the road 8 hours by this time and was exhausted. Even my sense of duty was not enough to overcome my sheer exhaustion. I phoned ahead and left a message with the office that I was running out of time and as two ambulances had just passed me on the hard shoulder, things were not looking good. The next hour was spent stationary on the motorway while the police removed a five car pileup.
I also phoned the agency and advised them that I no longer wanted any work – I told them that my own work was now building up – I thought that the diplomatic thing to do. As this client was a new one, they wanted feedback. They got it. In buckets. I was not impressed and said so. I advised them that if I had not been ceasing to work for them, this client would be one that I would never want to work for ever again. Ever. I think the message was reasonably unambiguous.
Then the client’s supervisor phoned me back. He was unimpressed. My drops should have been completed hours ago. The inference being that there was something wrong with me. When someone says they mean no disrespect, they usually mean that they do mean to disrespect. There was a slowly bubbling anger building up inside me by this point. However, I remained calm. The kind of icy calm that only deep anger can produce. I pointed out the manner in which the van had been loaded, causing me to spend overlong sorting out the orders. Surely it made sense to sort them at the depot ready for the driver. An agency driver who does not know their stock, system, or customers, will inevitably lack the efficiency of an employee – so helping with little things like this will maximise efficiency. “Not in this company,” came the reply. Well, that summed it up for me. I’ve never come across such a piss-poor shambolic shower as this organisation. I advised the agency of my opinion – any temps following me need to know what they are letting themselves in for.
Temping? You can keep it.
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