The Interview

"So, why do you want to volunteer here?"

I'd expected this question. I spoke about the impromptu tour I'd recently given and how it had rekindled the joy I have in sharing what I love about the place with other people. I explained at length about my fourteen years of employment with this particular organisation, the last seven of which were spent living and working in the house and how much I'd loved it. 

"What do you think volunteering in the house will entail?"

Was this a trick question? Maybe things had changed more in the time I'd been away than I had previously imagined. Perhaps volunteers no longer performed the same tasks as they had in my day, meeting and greeting visitors and providing information as required. Maybe they stage fully costumed historical re-enactments, complete with realistic battle scenes now or illustrate complicated timelines through the medium of dance. This could be possible, they may have successfully bid for an arts grant. In the end I decided to go with what I know. 

I outlined the role of the house volunteer as I have always understood it and, unsurprisingly, this was entirely what the role entailed. 

There were further questions (what's my favourite part of the house?  If I could go back to any time in history where would I go and why?) and then I was asked to pick a time to come and do the first of my three "shadow sessions".

"Shadow session?"

"Yes, you shadow another volunteer for three sessions to learn all about the house, and then if everything goes ok we finalise the paperwork and make you official."

"You did hear me mention that I actually lived in the house, that one right there, for seven years, right?"

"Oh yes!"

"And that the reason I filled in the application form was that I was here, just a couple of weeks ago, giving a tour. A tour about the house. Because I know a lot about the house."

"Yes."

"But I still need to do three shadow sessions. To learn about the house."

"Yes."

"Ok."

"Any questions for me?"

"Do I seriously have to do three shadow sessions to learn about the house?"

"Yes."

"Ok. Where do the volunteers have their breaks now? I can't help noticing this office is in what used to be their room."

"Oh, we've made them a new room, at the end of the cattle sheds in the courtyard."

"The bit next to the toilets?"

"Yes."

I was surprised there hadn't been some sort of  uprising. When I'd moved the volunteers from my office into their own purpose-built break room they been upset enough. I couldn't think moving them into the sheds would be well received. I supposed I'd find out soon enough.

"Well, I can't wait to begin! Let's get a date in the diary so I can start learning all about the house."

Changes

Changing behaviour is a challenge, to say the least. Changing things, as opposed to behaviour, is easy in comparison. We now open an hour earlier, for example, and the long awaited volunteer room is complete and in use.

At the pre-season volunteer and staff meeting I talked at length about the new room. I took the volunteers to look at it. I gave them all a sheet of Frequently Asked Questions relating to the changes for this season. When my volunteers arrived on the first open day of the season this weekend I reiterated the salient points.

These boiled down to:

• Do not bring drinks into the house. Apart from the fact it looks unprofessional to be swigging cups of tea while on duty, last year I found someone had left a hot cup on the chest in the Screens Passage (despite the provision of a desk with coasters on it, for just this purpose) resulting in white marks we then had to remove.
• Do wash your own cup after use and put it back.

So, naturally, when I walked through the house an hour later to see how everyone was doing, I was somewhat disappointed to spot a cup of tea balanced on the brass alms dish in the Screens Passage and another being held by the volunteer by the desk.

My frustration (masked by a big smile and a tactful "we mustn't put cups on the precious things" as I whisked the offending utensil away) was matched only by the arrival of the two shop volunteers at the end of the day, who had thoughtfully brought me the days takings along with their dirty cups.

What are my chances of getting them to accept the new room as the place to drink tea and do their own washing up before the end of the year?

Top Table

As regular readers may be aware, I have long had logistical problems with the volunteers sharing my office for their lunch and tea breaks. This year sees a major milestone achieved as the long-awaited New Volunteer Room is finally completed. Yea, and there was much rejoicing.

So, the room is complete. The finishing touches are not. McColleague and I are poised with all the little extras that make a volunteer/staff room so appealing. We have all the usual tea making paraphernalia along with a noticeboard, a clock, a comfy chair, some nice pictures for the wall and so on. The one thing we didn't have was a table. Not to worry though. Lovely Warden was making one."Now before I show it to you," said Lovely Warden, about to open the door of the warden's shed to display his handiwork, "the correct response is 'that's a beautiful table'".

McColleague and I nodded dutifully as he looked at us, then exchanged meaningful glances as he turned away.

As expected it was very large and made of wood.

"That's never going to get through the door!" exclaimed McColleague.

"It's very big," I said. "Oh, and beautiful, " I added, hastily.

"It'll be fine," said Lovely Warden. "I'll bring it down tomorrow, on the trailer. I can't fit it in my van."

As predicted, it was too big to fit through the door. The top of the table had to be removed and reassembled once inside.

It takes up quite a lot of the room. It is so big that McColleague was able to wax and buff it usuing the electric floor polisher we use in the house. Lovely Warden is unrepentent. He says it is such a lovely table he wants it to be the focal point of the room. And it is.

Tea Time Troubles

“Could I have more water for the kettle?”

“Give me a mo, I’ll just go and fill it.”

***

“Sorry to be a pest, but are there any more mugs?”

“I thought I’d left enough for everyone?”

“Oh, yes, but I had coffee earlier and now I want tea, so I need a new cup.”

***

“Shall I just leave these dirty mugs here?”

“Well, I’ll just move them off these timesheets, and I’ll take them through to the dishwasher later.”

***

The problem is, my office doubles up as the volunteer’s room, where they come for their sandwiches and cups of tea. As the only kitchen is my own, in my living quarters, they are unable to wash up their own cups or fill their own kettle. I try to leave everything they could possibly need in advance of their arrival at 12 noon. I fill the kettle, leave a spare jug of water, a jug of milk, a sugar bowl, teaspoons, cups, tea bags, coffee, a biscuit tin and a cake.

By 12.30 every cup has been used, the kettle is emptied, coffee rings adorn my paperwork, and crumbs have found their way into every crevice. Used tea bags squat on the side of the desk, infuriatingly close to the bin. If they’ve had their sandwiches too the wastebasket will now be overflowing with discarded wrappers and banana skins. The worst is when they bring fishy sandwiches in a plastic box….that “pfftt” as the lid comes off and the scent of salmon fills my working environment.

It’s not their fault. They do a long stint and need a bite to eat and a cup of tea. And if they see me in the office, typing away at the computer, they find it hard not to pull up a chair alongside mine and ask how I’m doing, tell me how they’re doing, how their families are doing, how their neighbours are doing. They are fascinated by whatever I might be doing on the computer, and show no shame in craning forward for a better look. Otherwise, they’d just have to sit there, quietly, watching me work, and that would be boring for them.

Next week sees the commencement of work on our new visitor facilities. We are turning the old milking parlour into new toilets, complete with baby changing room, accessible WC for disabled visitors and, joy of joys, a volunteer room. They will have their own area, outside the house, outside my office, with a sink and a fridge and a chair! It will be their room, their responsibility. If they leave it in a state, they will have to face the ire of their colleagues. If they decide to carry their hot beverages back to the house I am hoping the distance is such that their drinks will have cooled enough not to leave nasty marks on the historic furniture! They will have to clean their own cups! Oh my. I am quite giddy at the implications of it all. Still, it is quite a way in the future yet, and until then we are still thrust together at refreshment time. I made a small effort to get them used to the concept of separation. I moved the kettle and tea making paraphernalia to the other end of the office, away from my desk. It hasn’t been an unqualified success. One lovely chap came in today, looking in bafflement at where the kettle used to be.

“If you’re looking for the kettle,” I said, “it’s over there.” I pointed to the other end of the room, which I had tried to make inviting, with a chair and a poster. (To be fair, the tyvek and tape repair, billowing ominously overhead, does spoil it somewhat.)

“No, no, it’s all right,” he replied. “I’m just looking for somewhere to eat my sandwich.” And he pulled up a chair alongside mine and asked what kind of winter I’d had.

I have a feeling the new room may take a while to be accepted into common usage.