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There’s always someone who spoils it for everyone else, isn’t there?
Following Phil Schofield’s ‘unwise but not illegal’ relationship with a much younger colleague, ITV has issued new guidelines demanding staff (including freelancers, consultants, contractors and even those on work experience) declare any friendships or relationships with colleagues — or face the sack.
I can see the logic. The Schofield scandal exposed a very unsavoury, some might say sordid, culture of favouritism within the organisation — an atmosphere wholly at odds with the wholesome, happy-go-lucky image cultivated by its producers and presenters.
It has blown a hole in its reputation and ratings, and so it is taking steps to try to repair that trust.
But still. The idea that staff will have to ‘declare’ their relationships to their bosses, as though being mates with someone at work were some grubby little piece of contraband, strikes me as a bit of an overreaction. It’s also rather sad.
If people worry their job might be in jeopardy, they will think twice about striking up friendships with colleagues. It will create an atmosphere of distrust and paranoia, one that will inevitably translate into a more sterile — and, by definition, less creative — work environment.
After all, ITV is in the business of showbusiness: touchy-feely, air-kissy, luvviness. It is all about chemistry, on and off screen. You want people to get on. And you can’t do that if the dead eye of the HR department is watching you.
If I think back on my own career, my best and most treasured friendships have begun in the office. My three most loyal girlfriends — women who have supported and stood by me through some very difficult times — are all people I met at various stages on the shop floor.
One is a bestselling novelist whose articles I used to edit; another was a fellow columnist who now works for the civil service; another is a hugely successful editor.
I’ve known these women for nigh on a quarter-century, and if someone told me I had to ‘declare’ our friendship, I’d tell them to mind their own sodding business (only not quite so politely).
As for romance, well. . . half the teenagers I know wouldn’t exist if their parents hadn’t got together at work. In the days before the internet, that was how people met: in the office, or through colleagues.
I should know: my former husband and I were colleagues long before we married — although, oddly, our paths never crossed in the office before we met in person.
Back in the late 1990s, a young Michael Gove was Comment Editor on The Times — where I also worked, on the Arts desk (covering film, theatre, that sort of thing).
I knew of him, of course, having read his articles — but I didn’t actually know him. The Times was a very hierarchical place back then, and humble arts scribes didn’t really mingle with the demi-gods of the Comment desk.
Until a mutual friend invited us both on a skiing trip. It wasn’t until after I had agreed to go that I found out Michael was also going.
And so I had the bizarre experience of meeting the man I would go on to marry and have two lovely children with in the French Alps before I’d exchanged even a single word with him in the office.
And the friend who brought us together? Robert Hardman, of this parish, still a very dear colleague.
Truth is, work relationships can be very special indeed. They can be life-changing and, in many cases, last a lifetime.
And while very occasionally there are those that, like Schofield’s, turn out to be ‘unwise but not illegal’, the vast majority are hugely positive.
It would be a tragedy if, because of a few bad ‘uns, they ended up consigned to the bin of history.
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