Nangle Natters: Hands up

Sorry seems to be the hardest word. Do we not feel we’re in a society where we can go: “Mea Culpa” and learn and move on? Or is everything a sackable offence, no warnings, that’s it, goodbye?

When we were teenagers and twenty-somethings everything was heightened. A friend of mine had reservations about going out with one guy because he exclusively wore white socks. This was his sackable offence, his foot attire. It made her cringe. And there was no compromise in her reaction.

Now, with zero-hours contracts and every freelancer only as good as their last job (am I right, freelance-creative-arty-Brighton?) we’re still in an environment allowing less for mutual growth and learning, and more for knee-jerk pomposity and dictatorial rule. Cheers USA. Always good to know that presidential behaviour over there gives permission not only for American business leaders to throw tantrums but for our poor relation Brit managers to do the same.

Stories of employees crossing their legs and risking bladder infections so as to limit their bathroom breaks

There are horror stories of employees crossing their legs and risking bladder infections so as to limit their bathroom breaks. And on a more universally recognised level, we’ve all caught the latest lurghy from someone who’s brought it into the workplace who was too scared of the boss to call in sick. People, do you see how treating your employees like spreadsheets is so very counterproductive?

So nobody says ‘sorry’, because ‘sorry’ means ‘it’s my fault’, which is a bit of a brave and terrifying thing to own up to. Your boss could reduce your hours. Your lover could decide it’s easier to ‘swipe right’ than have it out and say that they can’t be seen in public with you in your new hat. Or know how to talk to you about the death in your family/substance abuse/creepy flatmate. And we stop learning how to have difficult conversations and instead live in fear of being sacked from all of our roles in life.

So say ‘sorry’. Take the leap. It was me that ate tuna salad in the office and stank the place up. I lost my rag when we started discussing NHS cuts and called you a bad word. I’ve learnt. I’ve grown. And I won’t be doing it again. Now, can we all concentrate on getting on with the next thing. And you know what – if you dumped me for this who’s to say my replacement won’t do exactly the same thing?