A comment from the here and now

As I revisit the past many of the emotions I felt at the time resurface. We are now heading towards the last traumatic year of Stately Moans, most of which I spent fighting my inevitable defeat and trying to go on with the show so that the public and volunteers wouldn't suspect I was not 100% happy. 

It was a tough time, for me and my family. Blogging about it all is cathartic yet not without pain. On the plus side, the benefit of having waited a couple of years before writing it down is that I can reassure anyone reading this that everything worked out in the end. I found new paths to explore, ones that mean I am not currently freezing my bits off on a snowbound estate and unheated house while parents drag disinterested kids round a substandard Easter trail. No. I have a four day weekend, all the chocolate I can eat and the freedom to boot uninvited guests out of my garden. I can just go out, on a whim, whenever I like. Overnight if I choose! As it turned out there are many advantages to leaving the cult of conservation charity work. I took a bit of deprogramming but think I'm pretty much recovered now.

(Nursery) Crime and Punishment

Those of you who have read my ramblings for some time will be familiar with the traumatic trail known as the Nursery Rhyme Walk. I had long harboured dark fantasies of taking a blowtorch to those badly painted and peeling boards featuring warped monstrosities from the Salvador Dali school of children's decor.

With the departure of Old Boss and the arrival of Acting Manager a window of opportunity had presented itself, under the guise of  change and improving the visitor experience. My proposal went somewhat as follows:

"Can we rework the existing walk and turn it into a nature trail?"

"There's nothing in the budget for a new trail."

"Not a problem, what I have in mind won't cost a thing."

"All right then."

A few days later saw myself, McColleague and Lovely Warden standing amid the forlorn Nursery Rhyme exhibits wondering just where to start. We were quivering with excitement, this moment had been anticipated so eagerly for so long.

In the end McColleague kick-started things. Take that, Little Pig. We hate you and everything you stand for.

Then it was the turn of the Three Little Pigs' houses. What the Big Bad Wolf couldn't achieve Lovely Warden most certainly could. Huffing and puffing is all very well but opposable thumbs and an ability to fling bits of wood a very long way is what's needed to top the food chain. It was all as deeply satisfying as we'd imagined it would be.

All too soon we found we'd demolished the whole walk. Humpty, Little Miss Muffet, Snow White and the rest of the mutants had been uprooted and flung into the abyss. We'd closed off the steep stairs of doom down to the swamp of despair and re-routed the walk entirely. No more would families with pushchairs find themselves confounded by uneven steps and tricky gates. Toddlers would no longer have to negotiate nettles and clouds of mosquitoes on their way to be terrified by what looked like Eeyore, if he was made of plastic and been left on a hot radiator for too long. Now they could stroll contentedly through our nature meadow and on down to the bird hide. They could even buy a bag of bird seed to take with them to top up the bird feeders if they so chose. Not only had we improved the walk for nothing, we had found a way to generate a tiny bit of income while improving the visitor experience.

This was surely a triumph and would look good on my annual review. You could almost smell the bonus.

Big Red

"So, you want to build a gingerbread cottage on the Nature Trail?"

"Yes. Just a temporary one. It's for my exciting new interactive Halloween event I have planned. I want to tell the children the story of Hansel and Gretel and have them actually discover this amazing house made of sweets and lollipops as we walk the trail. I want to inspire awe and wonder."

"I've got a shed, some off-cuts of wood and a bit of leftover paint."

"That'll do."

                                       *   *   *

A few days later saw myself, McColleague and Lovely Warden bringing these mundane entities together to create magic.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I think it looks amazing."

"Compared to the old Nursery Rhyme Trail a couple of garden gnomes and a plastic windmill would look amazing."

"True. But once we're in costume and the group are in the right frame of mind, I am quite sure this simple garden shed with painted bits of wood stuck to it will be utterly convincing as a magical gingerbread cottage in the woods. Don't look at me like that. It'll be fine."

The day of the event was a perfect October day, sunny and crisp. I planned to take three guided walks over the course of the afternoon, each one telling the tale of Hansel and Gretel.  I wanted it to be as interactive as possible, so the children were actually part of the story. So many guided walks and tours are hugely dull for adults, let alone children, and I wanted this to be anything but.

I was the story teller and guide, Big Red. I used to be Little Red Riding Hood, I informed the groups, but I grew. I had personal experience of these woods but not to worry, the big bad wolf wouldn't be bothering us today (at which point I showed them the wolf's head prop I had cunningly stashed in my wicker picnic basket.)

The picnic basket also contained a big bag of breadcrumbs which the children were encouraged to dip into so we could leave a trail just as Hansel and Gretel did and which would be obligingly eaten by ducks, sheep and, on at least one tour, a visitor's dog.

 McColleague was a part of each group, coming with us from the start, nonchalantly carrying a large shoulder bag. As we drew nearer the gingerbread shed I paused for a while in the orchard, to recreate Hansel and Gretel's fearful night in the woods. "Close your eyes," I instructed, "and listen. What sorts of noises can you hear? What sorts of noises do you think you might hear in the night?" Some of the children were entertainingly creative with their hoots, growls and comedy parps.

While all this was going on McColleague would leave the group and hurry on ahead to the shed, where she would complete an amazing transformation using only the contents of the big shoulder bag.




After sufficient time had passed I would move the group on to the next chapter of our story. Hansel and Gretel, tired and hungry, finally stumble across  a dwelling in a clearing. Hooray, they are saved! It looks like a shed, but no, it's a totally edible and completely realistic gingerbread house!

The children would eagerly gather round as I recounted the delight with which Hansel and Gretel broke off pieces of chocolate and biscuit and  gorged themselves silly. But what they didn't know was that in this house lived.....a witch!

And bang on cue McColleague would come flying out of the shed and chase the children, cackling madly. The kids never failed to shriek and run while their parents collapsed in laughter.

Eventually things would settle down again and we would finish the story, with Hansel being slowly fattened up and the short-sighted witch being fooled into thinking he was still too skinny to eat when he hands her a bone instead of his finger to squeeze through the bars of his cage. We re-enacted this with a small plastic dog bone from the pet shop as I didn't want to risk upsetting anybody with a real one.

The tale finally ended with clever Gretel tricking the witch and pushing her into her own oven. I did the pushing for this bit. Interaction is all well and good but knowing how keen over-stimulated children would be to shove a wicked witch headfirst into a painted fireplace I thought it best to cover this part of the roleplay myself so that McColleague and her pointy hat would survive to perform another day.

By 5 o'clock we were all interactived out.

"There aren't any more tours now, are there? Please tell me that was the last one. Please don't put me back in the shed."

"That was the last one, McColleague. All that remains now is to close up, cash up, put more lippy on, open the wine and partay."

I am a great believer in balancing hard work with an equally demanding level of play. Some people might say that having been on their feet all afternoon, talking non stop, having to do it all again tomorrow, they might prefer to have a quiet evening in on the sofa, resting. Those people are sensible and have probably never known the pain of having to open a visitor attraction the morning after with a head full of ball bearings. However, these people do not get to go to my after-event parties, so who's the real winner here? Answers in the comments, as per.

Big Red

Key Reps and Regrades

In retrospect it was always going to end this way. I'd won a few battles in my time but ultimately I could never win the war. It was like David and Goliath, if Goliath had confiscated David's catapult, broken it, called a meeting about David's unreasonable behaviour, come to an agreement, shaken hands, waited for David to turn his back and then kicked him hard up the arse with sodding great hobnailed sandals on. 

Back in 2008 I had a meeting with the Area Manager, a semi-formal affair as a last step before submitting an official grievance. After the disagreement between us about whether Regional Committee members should be afforded unimpeded access to slurry pits or not our relationship had deteriorated further. I had requested a regrade as I was aware that other Visitor Services Managers in the area were all on a higher grade than me and I felt I deserved the same pay for doing the same job. My request was refused.  

I generated a lively discussion on the staff forum online on the issues facing key representative staff (staff who provide security cover at properties and live on site.) Opinion was divided. Some staff thought we should be grateful for the opportunity to live in these amazing houses and make the best of it, and they were right. Others thought we should be given a bit more support to have a private life and time off and they were also right. I was just happy it was finally being talked about.

Around that time the Undercover Doris incident occurred, when I was told to stop writing articles for the local magazine without any sort of discussion or explanation. I was terribly upset as writing was, and is, something I really enjoyed and I was inordinately proud of my own page in the local rag. 

The final straw came when I found a Needs Improvement Plan on my desk. I was distraught and asked Lovely Boss what on earth was going on? He said the Area Manager had made him do it. I put in a grievance.

I agreed to meet to discuss the issues to see if we could resolve things informally. 

We discussed the complaint from the Regional Committee member. He thought I should have provided better customer care, I thought I had done so by preventing death by slurry. 

We moved on to key rep issues. Perhaps, he suggested, I really wasn't suited to being a key rep. There was no shame in it, he said, it wasn't for everyone. Surely, I thought, looking at his David Cameron-like smug expression, this was a thinly veiled "if you don't like it you can leave"?  I stressed how much I loved my job and loved living in the house. I enjoyed being at the heart of the property. I'd just like some cover so I could leave it from time to time. And maybe a door - a curtain would suffice - to separate the open part of the house from my living quarters.

The article I had written came under review. I pointed out that I had been writing in the local magazine for three years and in that time this was the only complaint there had ever been. In contrast I had received dozens of compliments and positive feedback. Ah yes, he countered, but for every letter written there are another ten who do not write. 

"So let me get this straight. I'm being judged on letters that haven't been written? And even if your statistical claim is true," I continued, "then the numbers are still overwhelmingly in my favour."

I went on to inform the Area Manager that I absolutely would not be engaging with his Needs Improvement Plan as this was entirely unnecessary. A Needs Improvement Plan states that it exists to "help an individual raise their game and return to an acceptable level of performance." My performance was good, excellent even, as evidenced by my results, annual appraisals, visitor and colleague feedback. What, exactly, needed improvement?

The Area Manager insisted it was Lovely Boss's plan while Lovely Boss maintains to this day he was told to implement it by the Area Manager. This is an ongoing mystery which matters not one jot in the big scheme of things.

The meeting concluded with the Area Manager explaining that he would not support my regrade application as my role did not carry the same responsibility of my higher grade colleagues at neighbouring properties. Apparently it was all to do with the amount of money I handled, nothing to do with hours worked, decisions made, responsibilities for property, contents, visitors, volunteers or staff. No. The budgets I managed were not large enough. He told me that if I generated the income and built the business then I could be regraded.  

I took him at his word. I didn't pursue the grievance any further and over the next four years I went on to:

• Increase visitor numbers from 22000 to 60000 a year
• Increase visitor enjoyment by over 10% so that 74% of visitors rated their visit as Very Enjoyable
• Develop successful new events and activities.
• Implement new and enhanced interpretation and presentation across the site.

And so we reach this week's kerbclinger (it's like a cliffhanger only much, much smaller and less scary):

Did I get my regrade? Tune in next time to find out!

The First Goodbye

She arrived in a cardboard box over twenty years earlier. The runt of the litter, she wasn't even chosen by my husband when he came to select a cat. She came free with his purchase of her sister, a somewhat larger, cuter kitten.


She was tiny, mottled brown and orange in colour, with large yellow eyes and pointy ears. She looked a bit like a gremlin but was far gentler in nature. She might take on a burly spider if feeling particularly fierce. She would follow me down the street as I walked my infant daughter to nursery school. I would fear for her safety on the road and turn round to chase her off back home only to find her behind me again a few steps later.

Her purr never worked properly. It stuttered like a faulty engine. I would wake in the night with it buzzing choppily in my ear as she licked my hair and dribbled contentedly on my head. She always drank my water. If I put a glass down she would immediately put her head in it. She loved barbecues, appearing as soon as the coals were lit and begging shamelessly for food, taking off across the shed roof with a piece of sausage held proudly aloft.


She outlived her better looking sister by eight years. I was worried she would be lonely and brought new kittens into the house, which gave her a second childhood for a while as she chased them about. She grew skinnier, tattier, louder, madder. She became a suitable mad old cat for a mad old cat lady. She only wanted human food and would yowl incessantly, annoyingly, until I caved in and shared. She developed a relaxed attitude to litter trays, preferring, in her old age, to go in exciting new places like games consoles, behind the television or in my shoes. Her favourite place to sleep was in a cardboard box on the landing.


She always hated travelling, being in the car frightened her. So the vet came to us because I couldn't bear to see her scared. The tumour in her abdomen, he told me, was the size of a cricket ball. I was doing the right thing, he said. Would I like to stay? Of course. I held her and talked to her and then she was gone.


My husband carried her out of the house in her cardboard box, an unconscious echo of her arrival so long ago.


It's no different to any other relationship, really. There will always, at some point, be a parting. It hurts and on some level we know it's inevitable but, for the most part, we forge ahead regardless, keeping our focus on the journey. If we didn't we would never have pets, children, lovers, careers or even new shoes, we would be too scared of losing them. This deliberate act of forgetfulness is what enables us to keep starting anew. The pain fades and only the silvery scars remain to remind us.

Bonus Round 2

"I don't want to be involved," snapped the Acting Manager as he swept past me into the office kitchen.

"But you are involved," I replied. "You're our manager. You told me to email the A.M."

"I never told you to email the Area Manager!"

"You told me to copy him in when I told you I was writing to the Regional Director."

"You're twisting my words," he spat as he searched in vain for a clean cup. "For god's sake, Doris, the Area Manager's going to go fucking mental!" Drawers clattered closed and doors banged shut as he ended the conversation by sticking his head in the cupboard in the absence of any sand nearby.

This all seemed a little over dramatic. I had written a perfectly pleasant email to the Regional  Director, with whom I had always had a good working relationship, asking if she or the Area Manager (who I had duly copied in as suggested by the Acting - make that Overacting - Manager) would be willing to attend our volunteer Christmas meeting as I felt the team would really appreciate a thank you from senior management for all their hard work in a challenging year. I had congratulated the Neighbouring Property on their bonuses and gone on to say how I knew there was only so much money in the pot and not everyone could have a cash reward but an appreciative word or two from someone higher up the chain who had noticed what they'd done would mean a great deal to them.

Oddly enough the invitation to a volunteer event appeared be completely overlooked and the response I had from the Area Manager focused entirely on the issue of bonuses. These were entirely down to the Area Manager's discretion, he said. He knew excellent performance when he saw it and would reward it as he saw fit.

Well, that's all right then. I was greatly reassured. I just had a couple of questions.  I had always been led to believe that exceptional performance was rewarded at our annual appraisals when our annual pay awards were decided based on how well we had achieved our objectives. There were very clear guidelines on this, policies and training courses and how-to guides online. Why wasn't the bonus system more widely known? Or known about at all? Surely a one-off cash bonus scheme, of which I and everyone else I had spoken to had previously been unaware, would be a great motivational tool for staff. Our Neighbouring Property must be immensely proud of their achievements. I would have thought something this significant would be publicised in the newsletter, or on the intranet, with photos? If there could be some clarification on the criteria for awarding a cash bonus then all staff could have an equal opportunity to achieve one.

The Area Manager responded by saying he was disappointed to hear my team would only work hard if motivated by a bonus.

At this point I realised I had to put the lid back on the box and not reply any further as I could quite easily be driven mad by these wriggly, willful misunderstandings, deliberate point evasion and derogatory remarks about a dedicated team I felt passionately  proud of and protective toward.  Perhaps Overacting Manager was right and Area Manager had gone fucking mental. I'd better not go with him.

"So, I take it he's not coming to the volunteer Christmas do then?"

"No, McColleague, it appears he has a prior engagement. Those lights still on the blink?"

"We can always use our torches."

"We can indeed. I don't even want the equivalent in cash when I remember how good my torch is."

Halloween scene setting can be immensely improved with the strategic placement of torches. Torches are much more useful than you might think and make a marvelous reward system for staff. 

Bonus

In the year between Lovely Boss retiring and the new General Manager being appointed the team at Stately Moans were not, as we had hoped, left to our own devices to run wild in the style of Lord of the Flies.

No, we were fortunate enough to have similar properties nearby so the manager of one of those was put in charge as an interim measure. A roly poly genial sort, a ready smile flashing from his beard, the light glinting off his little round glasses as he cheerfully introduced himself to the team. Keen, he was. Keen to find out what we thought, what we felt were the changes the property needed, keen to hear our ideas, keen to get everything ready for the arrival of the new General Manager.

There was a lot to tell him. Those of you who have read the blog for some time will know that this was not your usual enormous stately home with a budget to match, nor was ours a usual team. We were much smaller and closer knit. Things got done in unorthodox but effective ways. We didn't just think outside the box we made the box, usually oversized and out of wood. The staff, volunteers and visitors picked up on how much fun we were having and consequently they had fun too.

It was a wonderful place to live and work and you cannot do either if you don't love it. You give yourself to this unique situation heart and soul. The challenges of being on duty 24/7 are not to be taken lightly though and I had been trying to agree some consistent policies for key representative staff members for some time. I posted on the online staff forum to ask if any other key reps were finding certain situations tough. As it turned out many were in similar situations. The Acting Manager was keen to hear all about it.

It had been a rocky start to the season, once Lovely Boss retired. With his departure we lost a wealth of experience and knowledge as well as his support. Apart from anything else, he was the only other key holder so without him I was effectively on duty all the time. Acting Manager had his own property to look after and be on duty for, so we only had the pleasure of his company for a few hours a week.

The shop manager left at short notice just as we were due to open and McColleague and I had a frantic couple of days trying to get hold of anything at all we could realistically sell just so the shelves were stocked. Luckily for the shop, at that time we were without a Learning Officer so we sold most of the educational resources - any books or games in unopened packaging were fair game. With a second-hand book stand, some knitted items, jars of jam and a hastily restocked freezer full of ice cream, somehow we managed to make enough money to start buying in real stock and after the first 3 months we were actually making more profit than ever before. It was a mighty effort, given that we were without 2 members of the team, but that season we not only met our targets for sales, memberships and visitor numbers, we exceeded them.

I was therefore somewhat surprised mid season to hear that the staff at Acting Manager's property had been given a monetary bonus for achieving good results while the team at Stately Moans had not. I had been talking to a warden who worked at both properties, who had been sitting in Acting Manager's office with his ears very much open when the bonuses were announced.

"Say that again," I said.

"Yeah, it's true, the team there have all had a £300 bonus."

"But...but...we don't even do bonuses! This organisation doesn't give bonuses! How can they have a bonus?"

I was amazed. I looked through the policies and procedures manuals, I went onto the intranet, I searched high and low but could find no mention of bonuses anywhere.

At the next staff meeting I resolved to find out more. Acting Manager arrived, smiling and full of generosity. "I've got something for you all!" he announced. We sat on the edges of our seats. Perhaps we were going to get a bonus!

"It's a torch."

It was. It was a nice torch. In its own holster and everything.

"There's one for each of you." Acting Manager's smile faltered. We were not reacting with as much excitement and gratitude as he had expected.

"I hear congratulations are in order," I said.

"Eh?"

"I hear your property team have all had a bonus."

"Oh! Oh, yes. But I don't have anything to do with that, that's all decided by the Area Manager."

Ah. The Area Manager. Ours was not a comfortable relationship. I had officially challenged an unjust response from him in the past. I had refused entrance to some visitors out of hours who had later written to Regional Office to complain. One of the visitors happened to be chairman of a regional committee in another part of our organisation so Lovely Boss was ordered to give me a good telling off. He was very apologetic. I sat on a bench overlooking the moat while he duly passed on my bollocking and nodded, deep in thought. A lengthy correspondence between myself and the Area Manager ensued. I pointed out that not only had the property been closed, the group in question had bypassed the ticket office to cut across the park, which was a shame because if they'd come in the proper entrance the staff would have happily informed them that it was too late to get into the property now and given directions for a safe walk across the estate. When I encountered them they had been heading towards the un-fenced off slurry pit round the back of the farm which is entirely out of bounds to visitors for a number of excellent reasons. Exalted and revered as they are, even chairmen of regional committees can't walk on slurry.

I think restructuring began to form as an idea in the Area Manager's mind at that precise moment. It was not too long after that when the Undercover Doris incident occurred.

Clearly I was going to have to handle this whole issue of bonuses very carefully indeed. Or leave it the hell alone like the ticking bomb it so clearly was. It's not much of a cliffhanger is it?