Bragging Rights

This weekend I went to see Billy Bragg play at Perth's Astor theatre.  I've been a BB fan for over twenty years and like a total groupie could sing all the words to most of the songs.  I even managed to convince my sceptical husband to come along and watched with smug satisfaction as he became a convert over the course of the evening.  

Anyone who has heard of BB will know that he is more than a musician, and is rather a social commentator, political activist and somewhat of a raconteur who can give a great concert.  He campaigns for the voice of the people, resistance against the machine of rampant capitalism and general shit stuff going on in the world.  The first half of the concert was a tribute to Woody Guthrie who has inspired so many of our century's great songwriters, following on with a set of classic tracks from this inspirational entertainer.  Those minor chords just do it for me every time.

But I come away feeling melancholy.  Sad for the slide of social conscience that I realise middle age has bought me, replaced instead with inward focus on my own issues and those of my immediate family.  Sad also for the guitar playing that I never got back to after my first flurry of BB inspired efforts to learn some chords and strum a tune.  A bit (but not much) sad for my son who instead is being forced by me to learn guitar and listen to my rants about inequality.

Hopefully that evening will recharge me to come back to what is important in life, and maybe even pick up that Ibinez one day soon again.

It seems like you have changed, from red to blue....

Too good to be true

After two years of gainful employment I am soon to be thrown back to the jobless wolves snarling at each other in their quest to bag the elusive part-time-relatively-well-paid-professional job.  When I casually told people I worked four days a week, school hours, mainly from home, for a global consulting organisation they would eye me with suspicion as a clear weaver of fiction, as this really did seem to good to be true.  And alas, it now is.

This is my lovely home office, where I sit surrounded by my vintage tat, music, decent coffee and commuting time of about 2 seconds from the rest of my house.  And I can hop up every hour for a mandatory stretch and to hang out a load of washing.  Nice huh?  

Unwilling to up my hours to FTE (that's full time equivalent, don't you know) I've been told my contractor status means my employee attractiveness is now well on the nose.   Seat overheads - that's cost of carrying me as an employee - not jaunty parasols to embellish my workspace - means part-time is commercially unviable.  Of course if I was a permanent employee I'd have some bargaining power to receive the lip service benefits of inclusivity and flexibility heralded by large organisations today.   But I'm a contractor, and unless I go full time, cannot become permanent.  So there's the rub.   

Not that I want to get on my soapbox (hello?  are blogs not the new soapbox?) but I do feel that I'm now living the workplace experience of the millennium, the expendable casual worker who can be dropped at the, well, drop of a hat. Such is the experience of a parent trying to balance the challenges of having a career, making some money and being around to hear the stories of the  school day, get a proper meal on the table and get everyone to their afternoon activities.

Rant over.  But I pass now to Mr Bragg, who recently treated Melbourne commuters to this rendition of his view on the matter.   

ttp://www.theage.com.au/entertainment/music/bragging-rights-for-the-poorly-paid-20121018-27u2f.html