So moving forward ....after consulting Australia's Tax Department, the (un)Fair Work Commission, the associated "Fair Work Act”, a homeopath, astrologist Jonathan Cainer, and the Google Ministry - I have, overnight, obtained an ABN. And I can now call myself an independent Madam Sole Trader. Sounds so thoroughly modern and entrepreneurial.
And it's all good!! apparently? (according to all of the above) ...that is until I trip on a banana skin left lying around the office – whereby my Lady Boss will be exempt from all liabilities. Some might merely call the latter risk factor, a miscellaneous first world problem. And at least I'm getting paid ...at the lowest going rate.
Here's a snap of me and the HR guy in the lunch room ... breaking bread post-ABN submission. Boy was he thrilled when I finally gave him that ABN, and only then did he get a twinkle in his eye, shake my hand, and say in his charming Mumbai accent, "Welcome aboard!!"
Actually, when the girl on reception, soon reveals that HR guy is single!! - my ears go on high alert. But whatEVER am I thinking?! For he could (if he's on the same salary-sacrifice plan as me), no doubt to make ends meet - be moonlighting as a human-trafficker, casual crack merchant, Avon lady, pimp ...Or all of the above? Could be perfect date material?
Meantime, I'm getting fully embedded into the workplace culture. I strive to be all things to all people ....Even to that woman who shrieked hysterically at me last week. There was no need for that sweetie!
Madam CEO has sent around a rather lengthy, all-staff email, telling everyone that she expects us to wear formal business attire.
My fellow contractor/entrepreneurs - who started work there around the same time as me, are grumbling about the enforced dress code, and other aspects of the CEO's unique brand of micromanagement. To be specific ...there's the issue of the surveillance camera positioned to record all activities within our workspace. Had they not pointed it out to me, I would never have noticed it. Awkward.
Moving upwards and onwards, I endeavour to waste no time, and make it a win-win situation, by (upon the hour) practising some impromptu Marcel Marceau impersonations in front of it.
Things could be worse.