A fit of pique

You know you've been too long in a jobbie when you get a fit of the pique. Remember I'm the one on a verbal warning for 'unreliability'? But when one of the (casual) nightstaff fail to show up, I'm the only staff member willing to cover and experience the unexpected pleasure of working 20 hrs of a 24 hr period.

But to the preggers slug manager, this state of affairs is my own fault, and further confirmation of my gross stupidity. It should be transparently obvious to anyone off the street that her emailed rotas are coded. Bold text indicates confirmed slugs and staff, normal text unconfirmed. Never mind that she didn't task me to confirm before her 3 days off- what is wrong with my psychic powers?

She does a great job of managing, having recently mastered the art of the passive-aggressive email, the imaginary SOP, the unspoken request and the stick without the carrot. It must be obvious to her and others that I'm constitutionally incapable of the cognitive value-set required for management. When casual staff fail to show or produce rubbishy studies, it's clear to me that as you sow, so shall you reap and that quality of output is directly proportional to quality of investment. GIGO.

Maintaining personal regard for her is not a problem- I genuinely like the woman. But it's coming time to end unconditional patience and tolerance, the bitten lip. We need to discuss respect issues, the stick and the carrot, reasonable and unreasonable expectations, telepathy requirements and managing her imminent transition to maternity leave.

Yesterday, I gave a small object lesson. She notices she's not written up an important contact with a certain slug. I quip, "Yes, I noticed too, but found the relevant information in other records. It was no big deal, and I didn't even send you a snippy email." Taken aback from perfection, she's maintaining it must've occurred just before her leave, but I know this isn't the case. I keep my silence while she discovers there are no extenuating circumstances, and it's just one of those normal human errors to which even she's subject.

At 5.30 pm, she's still working furiously when I stick my head round her door to wish her a good weekend.