[Aleksander Volf – Domel Holding d.d.]

Delo na domu, kot trenutno aktualni obliki dela ni vedno določeno v pogodbi o zaposlitvi poklicnih članov sveta delavcev. Če tudi delo na domu ni določeno v pogodbi o zaposlitvi, ga pa v izjemnih okoliščinah lahko odredi delodajalec na podlagi 169. člena Zakona o delovnih razmerjih (ZDR-1). Izjemnih okoliščin ne predstavlja le razglasitev epidemije, ampak tudi okoliščine, ko je ogroženo zdravje delavcev in mora delodajalec sprejeti vse potrebne ukrepe za omejitev tveganja z okužbo s koronavirusom. Prav tako se delo od doma lahko odredi tudi v času karantene ali samoizolacije delavca.
1. Poklicni člani, ali koristite to obliko dela – delo od doma?
2. Kdo konkretno vam odreja oz. vam potrjuje to obliko dela znotraj vašega kolektiva?
3. Komu poročate o svojem delu od doma, glede na to da je poklicni član odgovoren svetu delavcev, glede odrejanja vsebine kot načina dela?

Hvala vam za povratne informacije

Aleksander VOLF
Predsednik Enotnega sveta delavcev Domel Holding d.d.
Profesionalni član

[Silvester Medvešček – SENG d.o.o.]

Pozdravljeni

Zadeva: Delo od doma poklicnega člana SD

Sem poklicni član SD, v vlogi sekretarja SD.
V družbi imamo sprejet Pravilnik o delu na domu.
Delo na domu odreja direktor v soglasju z delavcem. Predlog za delo na domu lahko poda direktor ali delavec.
Naloge sekretarja SD so napisane v Poslovniku SD in jih odreja predsednik SD ali SD. Sekretar SD je za opravljanje svojega dela odgovoren predsedniku SD in SD. Disciplinsko odgovornost poklicnega člana SD je v pristojnosti direktorja. Za izvedbo nalog in zadolžitev, ki so dogovorjene z direktorjem je sekretar SD odgovoren SD in direktorju.
Poročilo o opravljenem delu se pošilja tako predsedniku SD kot direktorju.

Delo od doma za poklicnega člana SD je v naši družbi urejeno. V bodoče bomo v to obliko dela vključevali dobre prakse. Te želimo vključiti v Pravilnik o delu na domu in tako slediti potrebam časa in razmeram, v katerih smo se znašli zaradi virusa.

Lep pozdrav in ostanite zdravi.

Silvester Medvešček, sekretar SD družbe SENG d.o.o.

[Darja Andrejovec – BSH Hišni aparati]

Pozdravljeni,

V podjetju BSH Hišni aparati Nazarje se vzpodbuja in s tem zagovarja kulturo zaupanja. To vključuje tudi vzpodbujanje zaposlenih, da se odločijo – v dogovoru z vodjo – kje in na kakšen način bodo svoje delo najlažje opravili.

 Delo na domu pomeni opravljanje dela od doma v skladu z dogovorom med zaposlenim in nadrejenim ter s pomočjo komunikacijskih naprav podjetja
 Delo na domu je omogočeno zaposlenim, ki opravljajo delo v gibljivem delavnem času, če narava dela in drugi pogoji to dopuščajo
NAMEN OPRAVLJANJA DELA NA DOMU
 Izboljšanje ravnovesja med poklicnim in zasebnim življenjem (za zaposlenega)
 Doseganje maksimalne delovne učinkovitosti s pomočjo fleksibilnega delovnega okolja
Pri opravljanju mojega dela od doma se le tega ne poslužujem, opravljala sem ga samo v lanskem letu, ko je bila tovarna zaprta, o opravljenem delu sem poročala kadrovski direktorici.

Darja Andrejovec
Predsednica sveta delavcev BSH Hišni aparati Nazarje

[Mirko Slosar – Luka Koper]

Pozdravljeni,

Kot poklicni predsednik Sveta delavcev Luka Koper občasno delam tudi od doma vendar le v v skladu s 169. Členom ZDR-1, ki se smiselno uporablja v času epidemije. Delo od doma mi dovoljuje interni odlok, kateri prepoznava moje delovno mesto primerno za delo od doma. O delu od doma predčasno obvestim članstvo Sveta delavcev in delavskega direktorja. Sicer pa v zadnjem času večkrat dnevno kombiniram delo od doma (kar lahko naredim z računalnikom in telefonom) ter terensko delo ali sestanki v ožjih skupinah (z vso preventivo). Praksa se bo po vsej verjetnosti pri prepoznanih delovnih mestih nadaljevala tudi v bodoče, ko ne bo le ukrep zaradi trenutnih razmer. Zato vam bom na kratko predstavil stališča Sveta delavcev Luka Koper glede pravilnika o novi organizacije dela – uvedba dela na domu.

V Luki Koper nismo še dokončali pravilnika o novi organizacije dela – uvedba dela na domu in zaradi določenih zahtev Sveta delavcev čakamo nadaljevanje. Seveda pa se izvaja delo na domu v skladu s 169. Členom ZDR-1, ki se smiselno uporablja v času epidemije, ki smo ji priča. To vrsto dela smo pri nas prvič uvedli spomladi in je še vedno v uporabi. Glede Pravilnika o novi organizacije dela – uvedba dela na domu bi rad opozoril, da je potrebno biti previden in skrbno preučiti vsebino, ker je lahko taisti pravilnik v bodočnosti orodje za “mehko odpuščanje” zaposlenih. Prav tako ne dovolimo razlik in rangiranja zaposlenih po statusu lastnika nepremičnine ali podnajemnika ter uporabnika dvonadstropne hiše ali garsonjere. Razna soglasja za vstop v prostore nepremičnine so pri podnajemniku vprašljiva. Vprašljivi so tudi pogoji dela v garsonjeri, če npr. zaposleni ne živi sam. Lahko pa si organizira delo na drugem naslovu izven podjetja. V prvem osnutku pravilnika je bil zapis, da če nadrejeni ne razume poročila o delu (na domu) je to hujša kršitev delovnega razmerja čemur sledi najmanj opomin pred odpovedjo!? Svet delavcev Luka Koper je to odločno zavrnil. Smiselno je, da če se ugotovi, da zaposleni samostojno ni kos delovnim nalogam zaradi takšnega ali drugačnega razloga se mu lahko enostransko prekine “delo na domu”.

Na kratko – stališča Sveta delavcev Luke Koper v imenu zaposlenih:
1.V primeru nove Pogodbe o zaposlitvi soglašamo samo s spremembo oz. dodatkom besedila, da je delovno mesto primerno za občasno delo od doma.
2.Dovoljenje za vstop v privatne prostore zaposlenega je izključno v domeni zaposlenega (razen v primeru npr. kaznivih dejanj, itd.).
3.Edina sprejemljiva sankcija v primeru suma kršitev delovnega razmerja med delom na domu je prenehanje dela na domu.
4.Zaposleni mora prejeti primerna finančna nadomestila za uporabo svojih prostorov in osnovnih sredstev za opravljanje dela na domu.
5.Naslov opravljanja občasnega dela na domu izbere zaposleni.
6.Delovno mesto v prostorih podjetja mora ostati na razpolago zaposlenemu, da se lahko kadarkoli vrne na delo v prostore podjetja.

Mirko Slosar
predsednik Sveta delavcev Luka Koper

[laner22323]

I have been the responsible one for as long as I can remember. It started when I was nine years old and my mother went back to work, leaving me in charge of my younger brother after school. It continued through high school, where I was the one who remembered to pay the utility bills when my father forgot, who made sure the groceries got bought, who kept the family calendar running while everyone else drifted through their lives without ever seeming to notice that someone was holding everything together. It followed me to college, where I worked two jobs to pay my own tuition while my friends took spring break trips I couldn’t afford, and it settled into my bones after graduation, when I got a job at a bank, because that was the responsible thing to do, because someone in the family had to have health insurance and a 401(k) and a savings account that didn’t get emptied every time the car broke down or the roof leaked or someone needed money for something they should have planned for but didn’t.

I was thirty-six years old when I finally broke. It happened on a Tuesday, in the middle of a meeting about quarterly projections, while a man in a tie that cost more than my rent was explaining why we needed to work more weekends, take on more clients, do more with less, be more, give more, become more. I sat there, nodding, the way I’d been nodding for fifteen years, and I felt something snap. Not loudly, not dramatically. Just a small, clean break, somewhere deep in my chest, the way a rubber band snaps when you’ve stretched it too far for too long. I finished the meeting. I went back to my desk. I typed up a resignation letter, printed it on company letterhead because that felt like the kind of detail the responsible version of me would care about, and I walked it to my boss’s office and handed it to him and told him I was leaving. He asked if I had another job lined up. I said no. He asked what I was going to do. I said I didn’t know. He looked at me the way you look at someone who’s just told you they’re going to walk across the country on foot, with a mixture of concern and the kind of disbelief that comes from a life where everything has always gone according to plan.

I walked out of the building that afternoon and I didn’t look back. I drove home to the condo I’d bought when I was twenty-nine, the one with the granite countertops and the hardwood floors and the guest room that no one had ever slept in because I was too busy working to have guests, and I sat on the couch and stared at the wall and waited for the panic to set in. It didn’t. What set in, instead, was a kind of quiet I hadn’t felt since I was a kid, the kind of quiet that comes when you stop running and let yourself catch up to where you’ve been. I’d been running for twenty-seven years, since I was nine years old and someone had to be the responsible one, and I was so tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind of tired that comes from carrying things that were never yours to carry, from being the one who holds everything together while everyone else gets to fall apart, from spending your whole life making sure everyone else’s life works and never asking yourself what you want.

I had savings. Enough to live on for a year, maybe two if I was careful. I’d been careful my whole life. I’d been careful when I was nine and my mother went back to work and I learned to make dinner for my brother because she was too tired when she got home. I’d been careful when I was sixteen and my father lost his job and I started working at the grocery store to help with the bills. I’d been careful when I was twenty-two and my friends were moving to New York and Los Angeles and I stayed here, in the city where I grew up, because someone had to be close enough to come when the car broke down or the roof leaked or someone needed money for something they should have planned for but didn’t. I’d been careful for so long that careful had become my whole personality, my whole life, my whole reason for being. And now I was sitting on the couch in a condo I’d bought with money from a job I’d just quit, with a year of savings and no plan and nothing to be responsible for except myself, and I didn’t know who I was without the weight of everyone else’s life on my shoulders.

That night, I did something I’d never done before. I opened my laptop and I searched for something I’d never searched for, something I’d never let myself want, something that was the opposite of careful. I’d never gambled. Not once. I’d watched my father lose money at the track when I was a kid, watched him shrug it off the way he shrugged off everything, and I’d decided then that I would never be that person. I would be the one who saved, who planned, who made sure that the bills got paid and the roof didn’t leak and the car didn’t break down. I would be the one who never took risks, because risks were for people who had someone to catch them when they fell, and I had never had anyone to catch me. But I was thirty-six years old, and I had a year of savings and no plan and nothing to be responsible for except myself, and I wanted to do something that wasn’t careful. I wanted to do something that didn’t make sense. I wanted to put money on something I couldn’t control and see what happened.

I found a site that looked legitimate. I found an active Vavada mirror that let me in when the main page wouldn’t load, and I sat there for a long time, my hand on the mouse, before I did anything. I’d never done this before. I didn’t know the rules, the odds, the strategies. I didn’t know anything except that I was tired of being the person who always knew the rules, who always calculated the odds, who always had a strategy for everything. I deposited five hundred dollars, which was nothing compared to what I’d saved, everything compared to who I’d been. I started with roulette, because roulette didn’t require me to pretend I was in control. It was just a ball and a wheel and the simple, honest mathematics of chance. I put fifty dollars on black. It landed on red. I put fifty dollars on red. It landed on black. I lost a hundred dollars in about three minutes, and I didn’t care. I was losing, and it felt like something I’d been waiting to do my whole life. It felt like letting go.

I played for three hours that night. I played roulette and blackjack and slots, games I didn’t understand, games I’d never played before, games that had no relationship to the careful life I’d built. I lost more than I won. I ended the night down three hundred dollars, and I closed my laptop and went to bed and slept for ten hours, the longest I’d slept in years. I didn’t dream. I just slept, the way you sleep when you’ve finally stopped carrying something you’ve been carrying for so long you forgot it was there.

I kept playing, over the next few months. Not every night, but often enough that it became a kind of ritual. I’d sit on the couch, the same couch I’d been sitting on for seven years, and I’d find an active Vavada mirror and I’d play for an hour or two. I’d lose more than I won, most nights, but the losing didn’t feel like losing. It felt like practice. Like learning to let go of the need to control everything, to predict everything, to protect myself from everything. I’d been protecting myself for so long that I’d forgotten what it felt like to just be in the world, to let things happen, to trust that whatever came, I could handle it.

The money lasted longer than I expected. I’d been careful, even in my recklessness. I set a budget, the way I set budgets for everything, and I stuck to it. Fifty dollars a night, a hundred dollars a week, an amount I could lose without touching the savings I’d need when I finally figured out what came next. I lost more than I won, but I won enough to keep playing, enough to keep learning, enough to keep letting go. And somewhere in the middle of all that losing and winning, all that letting go, I started to figure out what I wanted. Not the responsible thing. Not the safe thing. Not the thing that would make everyone else’s life easier while I disappeared into the background of my own. I wanted to write. I’d always wanted to write. I’d been writing since I was a kid, stories and essays and poems that I kept in notebooks under my bed, that I never showed anyone, that I told myself were hobbies, were distractions, were things I’d get to when I had time, when I wasn’t so busy being responsible for everyone else’s life.

I started writing in the mornings, the way other people go to work. I’d get up, make coffee, sit at the kitchen table in the condo with the granite countertops and the hardwood floors, and I’d write. Not for anyone, not for anything, just for me. I wrote about the year I was nine and my mother went back to work. I wrote about the year I was sixteen and my father lost his job. I wrote about the year I was twenty-two and my friends moved away and I stayed. I wrote about the year I was thirty-six and I quit my job and started gambling and learned, finally, how to let go of something I’d been carrying my whole life. I wrote a book. It took me a year, the year of savings I’d been living on, the year of losing and winning and letting go. I sent it to an agent, the way you send a message in a bottle out to sea, not expecting anything, just wanting to know that you’d done it, that you’d tried, that you’d finally done something that wasn’t careful.

The agent called me two weeks later. She wanted to represent me. She sold the book three months after that. It wasn’t a bestseller. It wasn’t the kind of book that makes you rich or famous or anything other than what I was. But it was a book. It was mine. It was the thing I’d wanted to do since I was a kid, the thing I’d put aside to be responsible, the thing I’d finally let myself have when I stopped being the person everyone else needed me to be and started being the person I needed to be for myself.

I still have the account. I still play, sometimes, on nights when the old habits creep back in, when I find myself reaching for careful like a coat I’ve worn so long I’ve forgotten what it feels like to take it off. I find an active Vavada mirror and I play a few hands of blackjack or spin the roulette wheel a few times. I don’t play to win. I play to remember that night, the night I lost three hundred dollars and found something I’d been looking for my whole life. I play to remind myself that being responsible isn’t the same as being alive, that the things we carry aren’t ours to carry forever, that sometimes the only way to find out who you are is to stop being who everyone else needs you to be and put a little money on red and see what happens. I wrote a second book. I’m working on a third. I still live in the condo with the granite countertops and the hardwood floors, but the guest room is an office now, filled with notebooks and coffee cups and the kind of mess that comes from a life that isn’t being carefully managed by someone who’s afraid of what happens when she lets go. I let go. And what happened was exactly what was supposed to happen. Not the safe thing, not the responsible thing, but the thing I’d wanted all along, the thing I’d been waiting for, the thing I finally gave myself permission to have.

[Avtor]

Prispevki