In the lobby, the receptionist is muttering grimly about another cock-up by RM's hilarious recruitment agency. "Don't even mention their name to me" he groans. "Do you think it might summon them, like the Devil, if we do?" "At least with the Devil, there's something to summon. I can't even be sure these people exist."
He has a point. The last physical contact any of us had with the company was at the clearing interviews, in early November, where we sagged in line for up to 8 hours to fill out some forms. If successful, we were told, we'd be notified within a couple of days. A month later, I received a text: "Congratulations! We'd like to offer you the role of Christmas casual"... at a depot 10 miles from your most conveniently appointed one. Should a blizzard steer your bicycle into the path of a left-turning articulated, while you pedal home in a catatonic daze, we assume no responsibility for your funeral costs.
When you try calling the company you're given 5 or 6 options: Christmas casual-related, managerial-related etc. Trying the first is an outright no-no: "Thank you for calling the Christmas line." Why, thank you. "But due to the sheer volume of calls, we are unable to take calls at this time." Ah. Yet calling the other options is an exercise in Sam Beckett-style futility too. Out of curiosity, I once left the phone ringing continuously, on speaker, while I went for a shower, made myself a sandwich, read half a paper. Watched the entirety of Heimat.
Occasionally, however, they'll forget themselves - and who you are - and send a text asking you to call them if you fancy doing some other kind of non-RM related work. I did once. Bored-sounding woman answered. I explained at some length. Moreover, that I was concerned I was going to compromise my safety, and the safety of others, in the work place, through being tired and unfit for purpose. "And I'm positive that's not a scenario you'd wish to entertain!"
"If you want the work, you'll travel" she snapped. *click* prrrrrrrrr.
It's 6am. Clocking off time. A signing-out sheet is produced. Utter chaos ensues. Ironically, for an organisation heavily associated with queuing, there's no semblance of a queue whatsoever: instead, a heaving morass of jostling, hi-vis-clad bodies hurling themselves repeatedly into the signing scrum, amid cries of "Don't push me, bitch!" "Bitch, you pushed me!" and "Push me, I'll push you, bitch!" A line manager stands well out of the way, gently shaking his head in disgust.
Any more news about the pay-backlog?" I ask him. Daily, complaints fly around that the recruitment company hasn't paid anybody when they should have done, or only paid them partly what they're owed. "We know nothing about it" the line manager says. "Only what we're hearing from you casuals." It's always the same, he says. RM used to employ its workers directly. But out-sourcing is almost always a recipe for disaster. "Same with the trains, gas, electricity, anything."
Update: Just seen this.
http://makealeftturn.blogspot.com/2011/12/royal-mail-workers-walk-out-in-cornwall.html
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