[Vladimir Šega – DEM d.o.o.]

Pozdravljeni,

v našem podjetju se je tako kot najbrž v veliko ostalih podjetjih v času korone zelo razširila oblika opravljanja dela od doma oz. na daljavo. Vse kaže, da bo tak sistem (recimo v obliki 3 dni v pisarni, 2 dni doma) ostal tudi po zaključku karantene. Zanimajo me izkušnje, ki jih imate v drugih podjetjih glede te tematike. Ali opažate kakšne izrazite pozitivne ali negativne učinke pri zaposlenih? Ali imate to področje urejeno s posebnimi akti (ocene tveganja, pravilnik, …)? Kakšna je bila vloga sveta delavcev pri uvajanju tega načina dela? Kako se v vašem podjetju izračunava višina nadomestila za uporabo delovnih sredstev?

Hvala in lep pozdrav,
Vladimir Šega
Predsednik sveta delavcev DEM d.o.o.

[Andrej Učakar, Iskratel]

Pozdravljeni,

tudi v našem podjetju se poslužujemo instrumenta dela od doma, kjer delovni proces to omogoča. Od doma dela dobra tretjina zaposlenih, večinoma so to razvijalci ter zaposleni v režiji. Vsem tem sodelavcem je bil vročen sklep o odreditvi dela od doma za polni delovni čas z obrazložitvijo zagotavljanja varnosti in zdravja pri delu v času epidemije. Za enkrat nekih “stranskih ” učinkov ne beležimo, večina sodelavcev je delo od doma sprejela pozitivno, so pa posamezniki, ki so ugotovili, da jim vseeno bolj odgovarja delo na lokaciji podjetja.
Sam instrument dela od doma ureja pravilnik o opravljanju dela na domu, ki je bil sprejet tudi po posvetu s predstavniki zaposlenih. V pravilniku je med drugim določeno nadomestilo za uporabo svojih sredstev in sicer v višini 1 EURO na dan.
V primeru, da se bo ta način dela izkazal za učinkovitega, pa bomo morali spremeniti pogodbe o zaposlitvi, ki trenutno takšnega načina dela zaposlenega ne opredeljujejo.

Lep pozdrav,

Andrej

[Mirko Slosar – Luka Koper]

Pozdravljeni,

V Wolfovi rubriki o delu na domu poklicnih članov sveta delavcev sem se malo razpisal pa bom copy paste dal še sem, ker se mi zdi smiselno, da smo pripravljeni na pokoronsko obdobje, ker se bo po moje praksa dela od doma v večini podjetij nadaljevala. Moramo pa biti previdni glede notranjih pravilnikov, da zastavimo temelje glede pravic zaposlenih. Delo na domu je nova organizacija dela, še ne dovolj raziskano področje z vsemi prednostmi in slabostmi. Meni osebno ustreza dnevna ali tedenska kombinacija, delo od doma, kar se tiče računalnika in telefona, ter par urc sestankov ali terenskega dela. Primerno naravi dela…

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

[fart213124]

I never planned on becoming a degenerate for a single afternoon. It just happened, the way a summer storm rolls in when you least expect it. I was house-sitting for my brother while he and his wife took their kids to Disney World. A week in a quiet suburban house with a pool in the backyard and a fridge stocked with craft beer he’d probably kill me for touching. The first few days were bliss. I swam laps, grilled steaks that were way too expensive, and slept like the dead in their ridiculously comfortable guest bed. But by day four, the silence started to itch.

That’s when I found the iPad.

It was just sitting there on the coffee table, no passcode, and my brother had left his work email logged in. I’m not a snoop by nature, but boredom is a hell of a drug. I wasn’t looking for secrets. I was just scrolling, seeing what apps he had, when I noticed a folder labeled “Finance” that seemed a little too thick. I tapped it open. Banking apps, sure. A crypto wallet. And then, sitting right there between Venmo and his credit union, was an icon for an online casino I vaguely recognized from a podcast advertisement.

My first instinct was to laugh. My brother is the most responsible person I know. He wears a belt with his shorts. He has a spreadsheet for his retirement that he updates quarterly. The idea of him gambling online was like imagining a librarian getting caught in a mosh pit. But curiosity got the better of me. I tapped the icon.

The app opened to his dashboard, and I nearly dropped the iPad. His balance was sitting at just over twelve thousand dollars. I stared at the screen for a solid minute, my brain trying to reconcile the brother who clips coupons with a guy who apparently had a secret gambling stash the size of a used Honda Civic. I didn’t dig through his transaction history—that felt like a violation too far—but I did notice the withdrawal button. And right next to it, a little banner ad flashing inside the app itself. It promoted the feature that had apparently made this all possible: online bitcoin casino instant withdrawal. No waiting, no banking delays, just crypto in your wallet the second you hit confirm.

I put the iPad down. I picked it up again. I put it down. The internal debate was pathetic and loud. It wasn’t my money. It wasn’t my account. But I wasn’t going to play with his balance. I just wanted to see what the fuss was about. I figured, I’d download the same app on my phone, fund it with a tiny amount from my own crypto wallet, and satisfy the itch. It was research. Anthropological curiosity. That’s what I told myself.

Ten minutes later, I was sitting by the pool with my feet in the water, a hundred bucks in Bitcoin converted into site credit, staring at a grid of slot games. I picked one with a pirate theme because it seemed appropriately adventurous. The animations were ridiculous. Parrots with eyepatches, treasure chests that burped out coins, a Kraken that would occasionally wrap tentacles around the reels. I started spinning at a dollar a pop, just watching the little stories unfold.

I lost the first twenty dollars in about four minutes. No big deal. I adjusted my bet down to fifty cents and slowed my roll. Wins trickled in here and there, keeping my balance hovering around the eighty-dollar mark. It was entertainment. Like paying for a movie ticket, except the movie was interactive and occasionally threw popcorn back at you. I played for maybe an hour, the sun warming my shoulders, a beer sweating on the tile next to me. I was down to sixty bucks when I hit a bonus round that changed the entire vibe.

It wasn’t a massive win. Not by a long shot. But the bonus round went on forever. It was one of those “pick a chest” mini-games where you just keep clicking and collecting prizes. I must have clicked fifteen times, each reveal adding a little more to my total. When it finally ended, my balance had ticked up to a hundred and forty. I was back in profit, plus some. A forty-dollar profit from a bonus round that felt like it lasted half an hour.

That tiny win unlocked something in my brain. Suddenly, I wasn’t just passing time. I was invested. I started paying attention to the volatility of the games, the return-to-player percentages I’d vaguely heard about but never cared to understand. I switched to a different game, one with a lower minimum bet but a reputation for dropping bonuses frequently. I wanted to chase that feeling again, that extended moment of discovery where every click adds a little more fuel to the tank.

The afternoon stretched on. I lost track of how many beers I’d gone through. The sun moved across the sky, and the pool water went from refreshing to tepid. I was in a zone. My balance became a living thing, breathing in and out. It would climb to two hundred, then drop to a hundred and fifty, then spike to two-fifty. I was riding a wave that felt endless, each crest and trough more thrilling than the last.

Then it happened. The moment I’ll probably remember longer than I should. I was playing a game with an Egyptian theme—scarabs, pharaohs, the usual—and I’d bumped my bet up to two dollars a spin because I was feeling invincible. The reels stopped, and for a second I didn’t understand what I was seeing. The screen had transformed. The symbols had all merged into a single golden ankh that pulsed with light. The win counter at the bottom started spinning like a gas meter in a hurricane.

One hundred. Three hundred. Seven hundred.

I sat up so fast I kicked the beer bottle over. It shattered on the patio, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t look away from the screen. The counter hit twelve hundred before it finally slowed down. Then it ticked past fifteen. It settled at just over eighteen hundred dollars. On a two-dollar spin. I had turned my initial hundred into nearly two grand in the span of a single, improbable spin.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely navigate the menu. I found the cashier tab. I found the withdrawal button. And there it was again, that same banner, that same promise that had apparently worked so well for my brother. online bitcoin casino instant withdrawal. I requested the full amount. I watched the progress bar spin. I watched my crypto wallet app on my phone, refreshing it every five seconds like a man checking for news of a lottery win.

Eighteen hundred dollars in Bitcoin landed in my wallet in under three minutes.

I sat there by the pool, the shattered bottle forgotten, the sun now dipping toward the horizon, and I just breathed. I transferred the money to my own account, the one my brother didn’t know about, the one I used for stupid investments and takeout. Then I did something that surprised even me. I closed the casino app. I deleted it from my phone. I picked up the broken glass, dried my feet, and went inside to make a sandwich.

I didn’t play another hand that whole week. I swam, I ate his steaks, I watched movies on his giant TV. And every time I walked past that iPad, I felt a little jolt of something between pride and terror. When they came home, suntanned and exhausted, I hugged my brother a little tighter than usual. He asked if everything was okay. I said it was perfect.

I never told him about the app. I never told him I saw his balance. But a few months later, he called me out of the blue, his voice weirdly casual, and asked if I knew anything about crypto. I played dumb. He said he’d had a decent run with something online and had cashed out a nice chunk, wanted to know the best way to hold it. I gave him the name of a wallet, kept it simple. He thanked me and hung up.

And me? I still have that eighteen hundred dollars sitting in a savings account I don’t touch. It’s my little reminder that sometimes luck picks you up, spins you around, and sets you down exactly where you started, just a little richer and a lot more aware of how thin the line is between a fun afternoon and a very different kind of story. I haven’t gone back. Not because I’m scared, but because I know the window only opens once. And I’d rather remember it as the six hours I beat the house than the six months the house spent trying to beat me.

[Avtor]

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