Here I am again, then.  Complaining.  I do that a lot.  Is it me, or am I doing that constantly at the moment.  I can only presume it's because things are a bit shitty with one thing and another, people leaving the clan, we're in the midst of a massive clan upheaval, we've changed webhosts and so, it's fair to say, there's plenty going on to become complicated and thus to complain about.

What am I here to complain about right now?


That's what I'm here to complain about now.  Network Rail.  Network Rail is the company that runs, manages, maintains, enhances and renews the UK's railways.  They don't run trains, but they own the infrastructure.  The lot.  Everything.  Except the trains.

What could I possibly have to complain about?  Well, it becomes a whole lot more logical if I tell you that I do, in fact, work for Network Rail.  I work in the planning department, planning engineering works many, many weeks from their undertaking and, well, last year, I didn't have a very good time of it.

Being gay, as I am, the rest of the "hairy-arsed maintenance types" as my dad calls them, appeared to find it terribly amusing to refer to other people as 'faggots' and 'queers' and generally make disparaging comments regarding homosexual people; that's alongside the racist comments they make as well.  But they did that, gently grinding me down and making me unhappy over the course of about a year-and-a-half. 

The odd comment here, the odd comment there.  Couple that with the fact that people didn't actually look at men while addressing me.  They would never look me in the eye, presumably through fear of catching gay-itis or some equally nonexistent, noncontractable illness.  And I was never invited to any staff function.  Christmases came and went and I never went to their parties because I was never invited.  So I felt something of an outcast.  (Ahhhh)

I was slowly pushed, further and further out; first off they didn't want me sat in the office with them, then, when I'd moved into the little office out the back, they changed their minds and I said no.  I'm staying put.  And I'm glad I did, but every time they came in from their office, using the printers in my office, there would be an atmosphere, whether I perceived it or whether it was actually there is another matter, but that doesn't matter when you consider those comments.  Deliberately within earshot, followed by stifled giggles.  Such is the reality of working with men of a certain age, I told myself, trying to ignore it, laugh it off, forget about it, but eventually it got to me.  And it would. 

I hated my job.  There's no challenge to it, nothing to hold my interest, no creative or management aspect to it.  It's just putting numbers in boxes and I was - and still am - completely underutilised.  I have a vast bank of skills that the company simply isn't making use of.  There are things that I can do that I enjoy doing and would be an asset to the company, but no.  They're paying me to put numbers in boxes.

So.  With nothing to occupy my mind, with the very poorest of training supplied by my evil bitch-cunt of an ex-boss from five years previous, things were able to get on top of me and gnaw away at my self confidence, my self esteem and my general feeling of self-worth and I sank deeper and deeper into depression, nearly costing me my job and my relationship.

Thanks guys.

I was getting counselling and I was on antidepressant drugs, and eventually, though nothing had actually been resolved and knowing that everything would be the same at work, I had to come back.  Otherwise, I'd be jobless.  Simple as that.  No support from my current boss, who, while I was off, made huge shows of how much time I'd taken off, took great delight in telling absolutely everyone what was going on in my personal life and conducted himself in a constantly unprofessional manner, I had to come back, and just get the fuck on with it. 

Which I did. 

And six months after my return to work, it's time for our bonuses.  My bonus was nearly £400 short.  Why?  Because I'd taken time off of work with depression. 

Well, one up for the bigoted wankers in my office, who will, next week, enjoy their full bonuses with glee.