Hugh Reilly: OK, jannies, it's time to think – and work – outside the box

Published on Tuesday 14 October 2008 19:56

RIGHTLY or wrongly (in my experience, it is the former), janitorial staff have a reputation for being a tad lazy. Let's put it this way – the claim made by scientists that the slowest-moving mammal is the three-toed sloth is undercut by studying the work-shy habits of the ten-toed school caretaker.

Most secondary schools have two or three janitors. Like sheep, janitors are a species that like to flock, thus it is very rare to spot a single jannie. When looking to find a janitor, the best place to find one is in the quaintly named "janitors' box", usually a small room with large windows that allow those inside to burst into faux activity for the benefit of passers-by.

These spontaneous body movements also serve a medical purpose, at a stroke lessening the likelihood of DVT as a consequence of a five-hour shift sitting on a swivel chair. I could be mistaken, but I believe that under the written terms and conditions of employment, it is a disciplinary offence for a janitor to be seen without a steaming mug of tea in his hand.

A watched kettle never boils, so the saying goes, but time and again janitors prove that to be a particularly false assertion.

It is testament to their strength of character that our unsung heroes manage to stoically endure hours of being confined in their box, with only Smooth Radio providing any sort of meaningful stimulus.

Occasionally, the internal phone will ring, but, keenly aware that the caller is probably a pesky classroom teacher seeking some assistance, this telecommunication is steadfastly ignored. After all, if the dominie really needs help, he need only pop along to the school's nerve centre and fall on his knees to beg for janitorial intervention.

Asking a janitor to lift a box only succeeds in raising his eyebrows. Health and safety, you understand.

Without a hint of irony, a janitor will point out pupils could be used to move the burdensome pile of books and materials to the storeroom. Call me a member of the awkward squad, but kids come to school to be educated, not to be treated as teenage coolies.

Infection control appears to be an alien concept to school caretakers. By daring to demand that soap is put into the, er, soap dispenser in the gents' toilets, Sir incurs much wrath. Politely requesting that hand towels be placed in the dispenser in a manner that allows them to be retrieved without recourse to the use of birthing forceps excites much angst in the janitors' box.

Why, say the janitors, can't troublesome Sir just dry his soap-free mitts on his trousers like the rest of his submissive colleagues? To be fair, it has been known for some of the less agoraphobic jannies to pluck up the courage to leave the security of their office, usually to smoke a stress-busting cigarette at the school gate.

Jannies who like to live on the edge have reportedly been seen walking the playground and picking up litter, but this has yet to be independently confirmed.

It is odd that the emergence of the lead-swinging janitor has taken place at a time when the job has never been easier. Years ago, few schools had elevators, therefore materials had to be dragged upstairs using hand carts.

Today, when a lift cannot be accessed, janitors have six-wheeled stair-climbers to take the strain. CCTV has negated the need to nightly patrol the buildings with a torch and a scary Alsatian, while electronic, roller metal screen systems have meant an end to the physically demanding task of pulling down the shutters around the school perimeter of the school.

It's time for janitors to think and work outside the box.