Developing issues
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We've run out of developers. That's it. There are none left. They're all gone. Those that still exist are hiding under the rock of steady employment, not wanting to venture out in case their object references end up not being set to an instance of an object. (I made a developer joke in the hope of luring one out... Best not to ask.) If you have one, hold on tight to him or her—at least as far as is both legal and decent—and make sure you don't lose them. Replacing them will, it seems, be a near impossible task. There just aren't any more developers available. Or, at least, that's what it feels like.
Since October 2016, I've been on the lookout for another member of my team. By 'another member', what I really mean is 'an other member', given that, at present, said team consists of... let's see... umm... me. The search began because my then line manager of six years got offered much better job elsewhere, and the selfish bastard took it. Since then, I've been bumped up the admittedly very short and—here—even more imaginary ladder to head up the development team going forwards. All I need now is the team.
The trouble is, I can't find anybody else to do the job. A casual look at the relevant job websites reveals that there are potentially hundreds of development jobs out there, but very few people applying for them. A less casual look—which, given my circumstances and the duration thereof, has become a lot closer to the kind of look I give them—would suggest that the handful of applications some of the jobs are getting are probably from the same limited pool of people. With these kind of odds, the chances of me finding someone with the right skills seem minimal at best. Of the few candidates I've seen, only one or two would have been suitable, and neither worked out. And so, the quest goes on.
In the meantime, my workload doesn't get any smaller. It doesn't matter how much of it I do, I'm attempting to cover the work of two people, and that's just not possible for any length of time. When my line manager was still here, if one of us took a week off, the other would find themselves struggling by the end of it, and we'd both be playing catch-up in the days afterwards. So, imagine where I am about nine months later. Despite working up to fifty hours a week since January, I'm still falling further and further behind. Deadlines are something I remember from the distant past, but which are now meaningless in real terms. Emails cluster in their hundreds in my inbox, to the point where they may as well be leaves in a blizzard, almost half of them wearing red flags. The phone on my desk has been called names that would make a Rugby team blush... albeit a handful of seconds before I then answer the blasted thing in my best phone voice. And still more comes in.
Every day, I'm faced with a choice as to which customer—or, more likely, customers—I have to let down. I can either focus solely on one project and do it to the best of my ability, but to the detriment of every other customer we have; or I can attempt to do bits and pieces of work all over the place to just barely keep things ticking over, but never really keeping anybody happy. As someone who ordinarily takes pride in the quality of my work, and who hates letting people down, this is deeply depressing.
Thus, I find myself still looking for that elusive developer to help lighten the load. Okay, fine, and occasionally messaging my old line manager to call him names (all in jest, I should add—I do actually like the guy and am (grudgingly) very happy for him). I remain convinced that there are developers out there and that, one day, one of them may decide to change jobs. On that day, I hope to be passing by in the back of an unmarked transit van—driven by one of my more supportive directors, I'd imagine—holding a large sack and a handkerchief doused in chloroform.
Oh, come on... It's been nine months. That's okay, isn't it?