Thursday — And Then There Were No Hours Logged
From the Series “The Payroll Manager Diaries: Tales from the Shared Service Centre”
Dear Diary,
Today’s drama came courtesy of the British Sales team. They "forgot" to submit their timesheets, as if this is some sort of optional activity. HR is now chasing them down, which is like watching a slow-motion car crash.
I had a call with their managers to discuss the “importance of timely submissions”. I explained — again — that we can’t pay people for hours they didn’t log. The Brits stared at me like I had just insulted the King. Luckily I was working from home today. I switched off my camera for a moment, reached for my antidepressants and washed them down with a slightly larger-than-usual sip of wine. It was only 11 AM, but who’s keeping track?
Karen also sat in on the meeting, her notebook filled with doodles rather than notes. “I’ve been thinking,” she began, “What if we make the timesheet process more inclusive by allowing employees to express their cultural identity? We could have themed timesheet submission days where people can decorate their timesheets with symbols that represent their heritage!”
I stared at her, trying to figure out if she was serious. She was. I could only stare in disbelief. At this point, I took a second antidepressant and made a mental note to open another bottle of wine after the call.
And then there’s Bob, who still hasn’t submitted his timesheet despite numerous reminders. When I asked him why, he simply said, "I didn’t think I needed to anymore. You know, with Brexit and all, I assumed we were going back to the good old days—no rules, no EU regulations, just the freedom to do what we want."
I almost suggested he also stop using the internet, start paying in shillings, and see how that works out for him. Instead, I just told him to submit his timesheet like everyone else.
Today’s work stress also spilled over into my personal life with spectacular results. I managed to mix up my grocery delivery with my dry cleaning order. I received a pile of trousers and shirts — very professional, but no food — while my neighbour got a lovely selection of avocados and cheese. When I tried to explain to the delivery driver, I ended up rambling about payroll discrepancies instead.
And in the ultimate blunder, I accidentally attended a dinner party in my pyjamas because I’d forgotten to change from my work loungewear. My friends are now convinced I’m secretly a robot.
I wonder if the wine bar is still open.