Tbilisi  ·  Vol. of labour figures  ·  Kazbegi Avenue

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Hours, absences, and output drawn as plates you can pin on a wall.

How to read a shift-load plate without sitting a course

A notebook and pen on an open book
The plate is denser than this notebook, on purpose.

A shift-load plate looks unfriendly because it is. It is a week of heads against work, not a poster. If you can read a bus timetable you can read this sheet, provided you accept that empty cells are information.

Rows, columns, stains

Rows are places: bays, counters, lines, rooms with a door the floor already names. We letter them as they are lettered on the wall. If your packing table is called “the dirty table,” the plate says that. Columns are the shifts you actually ran that week, including the unofficial overlap when the day crew stays because the evening crew is late.

A stain — a darker cell, a hatch — marks a handoff that failed: work left in a bay when the next shift arrived, or a bay staffed while the work was in another room. It is not a mood colour. If we cannot point to the failed handoff in the notebook, we do not stain the cell.

What the plate refuses

It refuses names. It refuses a ranking of people. It refuses to turn a thin evening shift into a moral. Supervisors in Tbilisi sometimes want a red column. We give them a thin one and a caption about headcount.

How to stand in front of it

Stand with the roster clerk, not only with the director. Ask which row is the kettle, if the kettle is where arguments happen. Ask which column is Friday. If Friday is not a column because you wanted a “normal” Tuesday, the plate is already lying and you should commission another week.

A census is a picture of one week. It is not a verdict on a year. Hang it anyway. Arguments that start in a canteen are the reading.