Sheep, as far as the eye can see . . .
. . . it’s three days since I posted.
It just seemed to happen. It’s not that I’m short of things to talk about, just the opposite in fact, but I just have trouble sorting my thoughts out. At the back of my mind there is the thought that I could be blogging thousands of words a day instead of the (intermittent) 250 I set as my target.
One of the things I have been thinking about is the many opportunities to work for no reward. I was browsing a website where a writer, who already seems to have a well-paid job was offering their literary services and directing people to the recommendations of various bodies about fair pay for artists. This person was active in education, which I always find ironic.
Lambs, everybody loves lambs.
When we used to host students on the farm we were paid, grudgingly, £5 per student. It couldn’t be more than that, we were told, because the students couldn’t afford it – the college wasn’t even paying. For that they had at least twelve hours of input from us, plus insurance, hot drinks, materials and access to animals, and paid us £50. The college, meanwhile, was spending millions on new buildings.
They wrote to us at the time offering their expertise on a consultancy basis. It was £75 per person per hour.
I demonstrate the secret of my success in Egg and Spoon racing
Words definitely do not fail me at this point, but I won’t use the ones that I have in mind. I wanted to reply that if they wanted to carry on using our facilities they would have to pay two staff for six hours each – a total of £900 compared to the £50 they were actually paying.
I was not allowed to send that reply.
They also sent us a Modern Slavery Declaration to sign, as we were one of their “suppliers”. So we didn’t just get paid a pittance, we were expected to fill out paperwork to justify ourselves. Ironic again, you may think, that they were so concerned about modern slavery whilst sitting in an office wearing clothes produced by child labour and intent on obtaining our services for next to nothing.
Their staff didn’t even come prepared. We had to provide lunch for one of them, who assumed their would be shops in the village, and on another occasion one reached over my shoulder as I was working at my desk and took one of my pens.
So much to say, so little time . . .
Cute kid or spawn of the devil?
That is one cute kid.
Yes, it’s not bad, despite giving me the impression that skies of blood and a Wagnerian soundtrack are about to begin.
I am not sure that you fully understand the importance of being an administrator. You need a proper building if you are going to administrate. Anyone can be a teacher, you just have the easy job of telling people what you know, whereas an administrator has the tricky job of telling people what they already know in language which they won’t be able to understand. It’s very hard.
Thank you for your masterly explanation – summed up as “Those who can, teach. Those who can’t, make up the rules . . .” if I understand it properly.
👍👍
The cheek of some people. I do wish you could have sent that letter.
Me too. Years later it still irritates me.
Letters of valid complaint have to be sent high up enough the ladder to get the attention of the appropriate person who can do something about it. The perpetrators will just ignore correspondence. I am sorry you went through all that. Sounds like the memories have been coming back to haunt you.
It’s strange how some things stick and others pass me by entirely.