induction

The JRT goes nuts when an Australia Post van rolls into my driveway a couple of minutes after seven. I gallop up the hall, bowl of Weeties in hand, to receive not one, but two parcels—a box and a large envelope. I should be more excited about the unexpected parcels than the Weeties, but hey, Weeties are the food of the gods.

The box holds five books, ordered online, and delivered 36 hours after clicking Submit on my order. The young atheist’s handbook feels lovely in my hand. Carrie Tiffany’s Mateship with birds has rave reviews. Alain de Botton I will give to my mother. Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom is thick enough for countless train journeys to and from the inner suburbs.

  

The sender’s details on the large envelope bear my new employer’s name. A clear folder cover with a broken clip spills the contents of a fat induction package over my breakfast table. On top are two copies of the employment contract I must sign and return.

I read the contract, careful not to smear it with the butter dripping from my toast. The only surprise is the salary, which I’m much too modest, and embarrassed, to disclose. Even at three days a week it’s $20k larger than my previous salary. I’m accustomed to working for a pittance after 12 years in the community sector.

I’m unsure what sector I’m about to work in; education, I guess. The contrast with my previous working life could not be starker. In community welfare I received no package and no induction. I signed a contract and got on with the job. I salary packaged more than 50 per cent of my salary to pay my mortgage.

Among the forms in my induction pack are sign-ups for Cabcharge, two car hire companies and an accommodation booking service, luxuries never contemplated in the community sector. I liked that lean and mean organisation and prided myself on costing it little more than my salary.

I check the staff list in the induction pack; what do all those admin support people do all day? Well, they send emails lodge to me with details of my travel to Adelaide and accommodation at an exclusive hotel. My night in the Sealake Hotel at $35 seems like something out of Dickens. It was.

I’m nervous enough about starting a new job, meeting new colleagues, finding my way to an office in Collingwood. But this excess of administrative and corporate wealth is freakin’ me out, man!

Rock on.