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[[File:Battery hen.jpg|450px|thumb|center|[[Legal eagle]]s in their eyrie, yesterday.]]
{{image|Battery hen|jpg|[[Legal eagle]]s in their eyrie, yesterday.}}}}In our [[Coronavirus|time of cholera]] we’ve heard much about what is, or isn’t, the “new normal” and how institutional employers might be “pivoting” from the unexpected marvel of compulsory remote working they were bounced into by [[COVID]], back to their usual resting disposition of outright distrust, under which staff must present themselves on premises to be over-watched, [[internal audit|audited]], monitored, measured and assessed for [[Redundancies|periodic thinning]].
}}
In these neurotic, bossy times we hear a lot about what is, or isn’t, the “new normal” and how employers — especially big institutional ones like banks and asset managers — might be “pivoting” back from the unexpected marvel of compulsory remote working — which let’s not forget, they were bounced into, to get them out of a [[COVID]] jam — to their more usual stentorian disposition, in which they insist employees must come to the office where they can be properly over-watched, audited, monitored, measured and assessed for periodic thinning.


For the [[service line]] overlords have grown to increasingly distrust the staff in [[service delivery]] who make things go. They see them as a necessary but interim evil — one that they are stuck with until someone can figure out how to deploy the appropriate [[chatbot]]s to ensure continuity and excellence in [[service delivery]].  
The institutional disposition has thus settled: ''calm the hell down, everyone''. We’ve ''got'' this. There’s nothing to see: this is ''not'' a new normal. ''Old'' normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.


But surely, [[the new normal]] is ''precisely'' the thing for which [[HR]] dogmatists have been carelessly wishing for thirty years. It is simply the logical conclusion of a push, in the name of cost reduction, that has dramatically changed the terms of engagement in office life.
''Do not adjust your mindset.''


Simply put, office working circa 2020 is ''nothing'' like office working in 1990. If folks want to talk about the ''going back to the old normal'', that ship has long since sailed.  
But is not [[the new normal]] ''precisely'' the thing for which [[chief operating officer]]s the world over have been wishing, carelessly, for thirty years? Isn’t it the logical conclusion of a generation-long push, in the name of [[cost reduction]], to deprecate the office-working experience? For the “new normal” was here long before the bats went crazy in Wuhan. If you want to talk sagely about the “going back to the ''old'' normal”, well sorry, chump: that ship has long since sailed.  


Over that time, employers have systematically dismantled the peripheral values that the office provides to workers, as if they are externalities that do not, except by accident, accrue to the worker. It has been an insidious, gradual erosion — a slowly boiling pot that has transformed 1990’s respected professional to 2020’s battery hen. Things a freshly minted clerk might have expected in 1990 — an office, privacy, discretionary [[travel and entertainment]] budget, an assistant to manage it, an internal mail service, typing pool, proofreaders — all have gone. Even the hardware the firm brought in to replace all of that has been taken away again: “bring your own device” anyone?
Over that time employers have systematically dismantled many “peripheral benefits” of office life, treating them as regrettable externalities that should not avoidably accrue to their staff.<ref>That is, where they can be persuaded not to dispense with professional staff at all: the temptation to [[Outsourcing|outsource]] meaningful work altogether to itinerant, gig-working [[school-leavers from Bucharest]] is one that many [[middle manager]]s cannot resist.</ref>


As for that office space: the young clerk had first to share her office, then give it up it for a cubicle with a headset, then a just an un-barricaded dedicated desk, and nowadays has little more than a soft commitment that, all being well, there ''should'' be a spare terminal at a bank of desks that you can log into, assuming enough people are sick or on holiday, and you wipe it clean and sanitise it pursuant to the clewar desk policy before you leave for the day.  If there’s no room you can always log in on your own mobile — assuming you re happy to provide that. As the cleaning bots emerge, there is no trace of humanity. Almost all of this in the service of uniting cause: cost reduction.
So, things a graduate might have expected in 1990 — an office, status, privacy, a [[travel and entertainment]] budget, an assistant, an internal mail service, a typing pool, proofreaders — these fripperies have gone.  


Employees, in the meantime, have kept up ''their'' end of the bargain unalloyed.  
To be sure, that office might have been a coffin-sized, mouse-infested internal filing cupboard, but it was, marginally, ''private''. But, some time in the late ’90s, she had to share it, then give it up it for a cubicle, the give that up for an un-barricaded desk in a row.  


In many ways “bring your own office premises” was no more than the logical next step, but in any case, COVID has let the genie out of the bottle: just as we found BYOD a blessing in many ways (though some subsidy for the cost we bore on our employers’ behalves might have been nice) BYOOP offers us so much more: we can fit it our office to our own specification, have an oak-panelled study if we fancy it, and no [[chief operating officer]] in the firm need care a row of buttons about it.  
Nowadays, she has a soft commitment that, as long as the projected number of co-workers are sick or on holiday, there ''should'' be a spare terminal somewhere in the department she can log into, as long as she wipes it down and removes her belongings before leaving for the day in compliance with the [[clear desk policy]], and as long as she [[bring your own device|brings something to log in ''with'']]: even the [[IT department|hardware]] has been taken away, now, because it’s too expensive.  


Now we have seen that possibility, is it any wonder that the thought of spending hours a day commuting (at our own expense) back and forth into an office where we can expect to sit like battery hens at thin client telescreens and participate in exactly the same Skype video calls that we can do perfectly well from the comfort of our own book-lined dens, only with a larger screen, better coffee and electric guitar handy for those lengthy spells where operations give their monthly budget update to the management opco
Forget about tea and coffee: what is this? ''Butlins''? Even paper cups have disappeared from kitchens; chocolate biscuits have disappeared from meeting rooms which, themselves, slowly vanished as our working spaces were systematically compressed.
Long before COVID, that is to say, the office had lost most of its appeal.  Yet, like frogs in a warming pot, we have tolerated the piecemeal withdrawal of emoluments: thousands of cuts in a long-term doctrinaire erosion of paltry joys. But the professions changed over that period: they were transformed into [[fungible]], interchangeable items of capital. In this way did ''personnel'' become ''plant''.


Now all this would be fair enough for work that really ''could'' be [[operationalise]]d. That’s the way it’s gone since the plough: separate dull mechanical tasks, better done by a machine, from interesting and valuable needing judgment and emotional intelligence, to be done by the [[meatware]].


“Bring your own premises” is just the logical next step. We already bring our own devices. Just as [[BYOD]] was an unexpected blessing, so is “[[BYOP]]”: we can roll back the years. ''Nineteen ninety is back''. We can trade a sterilised rectangle of desk-space for our own office, as grandiose or grubby as we like, with photos of departed pets, printouts of those faxed Larson cartoons and whale music on the Sonos if we want, and the [[Chief Operating Officer]] need not care a row of buttons, and can’t do a thing about it, even if he does.


And now we have seen that possibility — not just seen it, but demonstrated over a sustained period that we can make it work: we are more productive that way, is it any wonder that slogging each day into a drab warehouse to sit at a telescreen, only participate in exactly the same Zoom calls we’ve been doing from home, only with crappier coffee and no guitar for those lengthy spells on mute — really doesn’t appeal?


 
{{sa}}
The bargain is a two-way street: I employ my intellectual capital in furtherance of your commercial aims: you afford me consideration —partly, but not entirely in the form of money — to do that.
*[[Bring your own premises]]
 
*[[Coronavirus]]
HR generalists are long on gasbagging about the lessons of behavioural psychology, but short on putting them into practice.
*[[Operationalisation]]
{{ref}}

Latest revision as of 13:18, 29 April 2024

Office anthropology™


Legal eagles in their eyrie, yesterday.
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Work anthropology
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In our time of cholera we’ve heard much about what is, or isn’t, the “new normal” and how institutional employers might be “pivoting” from the unexpected marvel of compulsory remote working they were bounced into by COVID, back to their usual resting disposition of outright distrust, under which staff must present themselves on premises to be over-watched, audited, monitored, measured and assessed for periodic thinning.

The institutional disposition has thus settled: calm the hell down, everyone. We’ve got this. There’s nothing to see: this is not a new normal. Old normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

Do not adjust your mindset.

But is not the new normal precisely the thing for which chief operating officers the world over have been wishing, carelessly, for thirty years? Isn’t it the logical conclusion of a generation-long push, in the name of cost reduction, to deprecate the office-working experience? For the “new normal” was here long before the bats went crazy in Wuhan. If you want to talk sagely about the “going back to the old normal”, well sorry, chump: that ship has long since sailed.

Over that time employers have systematically dismantled many “peripheral benefits” of office life, treating them as regrettable externalities that should not avoidably accrue to their staff.[1]

So, things a graduate might have expected in 1990 — an office, status, privacy, a travel and entertainment budget, an assistant, an internal mail service, a typing pool, proofreaders — these fripperies have gone.

To be sure, that office might have been a coffin-sized, mouse-infested internal filing cupboard, but it was, marginally, private. But, some time in the late ’90s, she had to share it, then give it up it for a cubicle, the give that up for an un-barricaded desk in a row.

Nowadays, she has a soft commitment that, as long as the projected number of co-workers are sick or on holiday, there should be a spare terminal somewhere in the department she can log into, as long as she wipes it down and removes her belongings before leaving for the day in compliance with the clear desk policy, and as long as she brings something to log in with: even the hardware has been taken away, now, because it’s too expensive.

Forget about tea and coffee: what is this? Butlins? Even paper cups have disappeared from kitchens; chocolate biscuits have disappeared from meeting rooms which, themselves, slowly vanished as our working spaces were systematically compressed.

Long before COVID, that is to say, the office had lost most of its appeal. Yet, like frogs in a warming pot, we have tolerated the piecemeal withdrawal of emoluments: thousands of cuts in a long-term doctrinaire erosion of paltry joys. But the professions changed over that period: they were transformed into fungible, interchangeable items of capital. In this way did personnel become plant.

Now all this would be fair enough for work that really could be operationalised. That’s the way it’s gone since the plough: separate dull mechanical tasks, better done by a machine, from interesting and valuable needing judgment and emotional intelligence, to be done by the meatware.

“Bring your own premises” is just the logical next step. We already bring our own devices. Just as BYOD was an unexpected blessing, so is “BYOP”: we can roll back the years. Nineteen ninety is back. We can trade a sterilised rectangle of desk-space for our own office, as grandiose or grubby as we like, with photos of departed pets, printouts of those faxed Larson cartoons and whale music on the Sonos if we want, and the Chief Operating Officer need not care a row of buttons, and can’t do a thing about it, even if he does.

And now we have seen that possibility — not just seen it, but demonstrated over a sustained period that we can make it work: we are more productive that way, is it any wonder that slogging each day into a drab warehouse to sit at a telescreen, only participate in exactly the same Zoom calls we’ve been doing from home, only with crappier coffee and no guitar for those lengthy spells on mute — really doesn’t appeal?

See also

References

  1. ↑ That is, where they can be persuaded not to dispense with professional staff at all: the temptation to outsource meaningful work altogether to itinerant, gig-working school-leavers from Bucharest is one that many middle managers cannot resist.
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