Willy’s called in sick. We wouldn’t usually disclose the details, but Willy consented. The phone didn’t ring long – just an automated voice asking for his name, reason for absence, and WWID. No greeting, no warmth, just data collection by drone. That’s the Cummins way: efficient, impersonal, clinically indifferent.
He’s been off his stride since the Dennis incident. The kind of thing that hangs around. HR says they’ll book him in with Occupational Health – a phrase that sounds caring until you realise it means a form to fill, a journey to site, and a professional stranger with a clipboard measuring your misery.
Willy’s already got a GP appointment. He doesn’t feel fit to travel across county lines to tick boxes in a fluorescent room. When he tells them this, they seem cold. They note it down – flatly, politely – and move on. The same people who push mental-health flyers promising “It’s OK not to be OK” now sound oddly unmoved when someone actually isn’t.
He’s never had a Record of Conversation, the supposed first step in Cummins’ absence-management playbook. This should be a call from a manager but Willy hasn’t heard from his. He suspects his manager is mad that he’s absent. But he’s heard the stories – times when HR skipped this phase and moved straight to SAL1, fast-tracking the paperwork like empathy was an optional extra.
Last week he emailed HR Advisor Jenny Pink about it. He disclosed a lot of personal feelings but nothing much back except generic platitudes and an appointment reminder. Oh and this morning, an envelope arrived – one A5 leaflet for the Employee Assistance Programme courtesy of Cummins. No note, no signature, just glossy reassurance by post.
He puts it on the kitchen table beside the paracetamol and leaves it there. Willy goes back to bed, he’s sleeping more than usual. Perhaps next week will bring a more upbeat update.
Lee Thompson – Founder, The Cummins Accountability Project