Monday, January 30, 2012

The return

I came back to work and met with my new work station. It's got a window, which is kewl, though my PC faces the corridor due to the large pillar that juts out and thus prevents PCs to face windows. 

It took around 49 minutes to log on, and two calls to the IT support desk to do it. Later I miss-keyed my password and locked myself out. I had to call for a third time to get it re-reset. 

I had to delete (slash) relocate a tranche of emails just so I could send out emails of my own and even then I didn't get much done as Robot, my rehab manager, turned up for the rehab interview. Which meant giving my case history of my 'woe is me' medical crap for a third time to a third party. It makes sense, privacy-wise they just can't hand that info over, but it is annoying to have to do it. Especially when you recall stuff mid-way through like 'oh yeah, I have apnoea apparently. I need to get tests.' Still, he seemed nice. So that's something.

Nothing was done with any of my work while I was away as best I can tell which is a little worrying. And I am worried the uber email address for my job filled up so much so when I was away that it's fallen over (I couldn't access it today) and unrecoverable. Fuck. 

Oh well, can't be helped. I was on medical leave. They could not have expected me to do anything while I was away to fix stuff. It was in the hands of others.

Cross fingers the email sort tomorrow won't be hideous.

UPDATE: I just had to spend thirty minutes talking to my workplace case manager. This in addition to the call with Robot from the rehab org that's helping me.  Only he wasn't calling about my needs or anything but about the letter from a Doctor saying I could be back at work. This wasn't raised initially as a requirement but apparently my returning on half days needs a doctor to say that's okay. And because that may happen therefore I need a Doctor to say I can come back ... at all. It's all very annoying especially after you've given a recitation of fool proof plan of resolving the issue on the morrow and ended it with 'yes, you will have the letter and yes I know I can't come back to work until I have it' and he then reminds you that you cannot legally come back to work without a letter. Why do people feel the need to say the same fucking thing three fucking times when I've shown active listening skills in repeating it back to them along with fucking resolutions? Maybe it's a 'I just need to reiterate this' action. I LOATHE being told the same thing more than once. Loathe it. Makes me go the mega-seethe.

But then the admin for my health assistance has been nothing short of a complete balls-up end-to-fucking-end. So of course such an absurd piece of admin requirement would happen, like Cancer cells re-spawning, waiting to trip me up the moment I walk in the fucking door. It wouldn't be the public service without it.

UPDATE2: Went to check the old white car. It has not been turned on since it arrived, steaming away the last of its water, some months ago. I tried it. It is dead. To the NRMA!

UPDATE3: NRMA been and gone. They turned up in less than an hour, charged up my battery enough the engine could just start it on its own and theWife took the old white car for a charge. Meanwhile I did Storyverse on "The Big Bed"; the name for the king-sized bed that dominates the second non-master bedroom in our house (1). The gang played virtual hide and seek. At one point "I" left the game to go do my cycle, only I got delayed on the computer. As his hiding spot theBoy chose to disguise himself as me and be riding The Purgatory Cart (2)  when the "it" came in looking for him. In this case, it was Robot (3). He saw theBoy dressed as hisDad, bleeped "CARRY ON", then left. Cunning theBoy!

(1) Why there and not the master bedroom? Alas, also known as the end room, the master bedroom is instead a combined guest bed (slash) library (slash) study (slash) desktop computer room (slash) the warm place that gets lots of sun and where the cats like to sleep at times (slash) where I also sometimes read my newspaper. theWife bought this kewl spongy carpet thing that I can beach myself on. It makes a hard floor just a little softer. Ideal for men weak of the hip and moral turpitude.
(2) Owned by the already-off-to-a-tricky-start international jewel thieves and travelling mother and child, Casso. Well, the mother bit, at least. I don't think N--- has laid claim to the bike. Though if he saw it I am sure with minimal prompting he could be coached to toddle-run over to it and yell mine, then rub up against it and purr like a cat. 
(3) My mental pic of Robot tends to vary but it seems mostly Marvin-esq from the awesome-as-fuck Hitchhiker's TV series. God I miss Douglas Adams. He the man was everything I the Mikey wanted to be—only taller! Though to have that bonus height having forever been a smaller man that would have been fun. Less fun is the dying at 49 after a gym session of all things. What a shitty way to do. Just after you did some fucking allegedly-as-all-fuck-staving-off-death exercise. Like when it rains as you drive out of the car wash. Only far permanent and upsetting. Like when you drive into a car wash and you simply don't come out. That's more like it! 

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