Oiling The Wheels Of The Machinery Of State With My Own Precious Blood
Otherwise known as full time work for the Child Support Agency, doing things that are highly unstimulating for a Level Two public service paycheque.
Frankly Mr Shankly, this position I've held,
It pays my way, but it corrodes my soul,
I want to leave, you will not miss me,
I want to go down in celluloid history!
...
Fame, fame, fatal fame,
It can play hideous tricks on the brain,
But still I'd rather be famous, than righteous or holy,
Any day, any day, any day ...
The Smiths, 'Frankly Mr Shankly'
They hired about twenty people and I was amongst five who were singled out for the slightly more complicated work. Since that time, I've been given special praise a couple of times so I'm probably one of the best couple they hired, and aren't I proud of it. Oh bureaucratic masters, I'll roll over if you'll scratch my tummy! Feed me more heartrending letters from abandoned mothers to process! Worst of all, I'm being infected with the vocabulary of the place. Acronyms. NAPs, S120s, S72As, 101s, 102s, CRNs, TFNs, CSIDs, RDs, are my breakfast, lunch and tea. I no longer do things, I 'action' them. Call me verbed.
The scary thing about it all is, the world actually needs people in my position. Today I arranged for probably around $5000 of child support payments to actually reach their intended destination. I hope this means that some cute kids somewhere get decent Christmas presents. Don't think I have any sense of pride or interest in the work I'm doing. I have interest, it's true I suppose; but it's more of the 'what an interesting disease' variety - a sneering, uncomprehending evil glare at the labyrinthine parameters of my struggles with paperwork and excruciating, complex databases. Every letter that arrives at the place carries with it the strongest sense of dramatic irony. Every 'client' (read penny-pinching father or struggling single mother in most cases) seems to think there's some kind of organised, functioning system behind the facade of press liaison officers and call centre quality of service audits. Must be because all the letters we send out come from the Regional Registrar herself, Glenda Scott. She doesn't actually see any of them, mind. She's signed her very signature over to the public domain, making it the property of every employee of the CSA in Western Australia.
Otherwise known as full time work for the Child Support Agency, doing things that are highly unstimulating for a Level Two public service paycheque.
Frankly Mr Shankly, this position I've held,
It pays my way, but it corrodes my soul,
I want to leave, you will not miss me,
I want to go down in celluloid history!
...
Fame, fame, fatal fame,
It can play hideous tricks on the brain,
But still I'd rather be famous, than righteous or holy,
Any day, any day, any day ...
The Smiths, 'Frankly Mr Shankly'
They hired about twenty people and I was amongst five who were singled out for the slightly more complicated work. Since that time, I've been given special praise a couple of times so I'm probably one of the best couple they hired, and aren't I proud of it. Oh bureaucratic masters, I'll roll over if you'll scratch my tummy! Feed me more heartrending letters from abandoned mothers to process! Worst of all, I'm being infected with the vocabulary of the place. Acronyms. NAPs, S120s, S72As, 101s, 102s, CRNs, TFNs, CSIDs, RDs, are my breakfast, lunch and tea. I no longer do things, I 'action' them. Call me verbed.
The scary thing about it all is, the world actually needs people in my position. Today I arranged for probably around $5000 of child support payments to actually reach their intended destination. I hope this means that some cute kids somewhere get decent Christmas presents. Don't think I have any sense of pride or interest in the work I'm doing. I have interest, it's true I suppose; but it's more of the 'what an interesting disease' variety - a sneering, uncomprehending evil glare at the labyrinthine parameters of my struggles with paperwork and excruciating, complex databases. Every letter that arrives at the place carries with it the strongest sense of dramatic irony. Every 'client' (read penny-pinching father or struggling single mother in most cases) seems to think there's some kind of organised, functioning system behind the facade of press liaison officers and call centre quality of service audits. Must be because all the letters we send out come from the Regional Registrar herself, Glenda Scott. She doesn't actually see any of them, mind. She's signed her very signature over to the public domain, making it the property of every employee of the CSA in Western Australia.
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