Jane is both astonished and envious of my new-found status as: “Workers’ Champion”.

“You used to be such a goody-two-shoes,” she sneers. “You would never have dreamed of doing something like this when I first met you.”

“Yes I would!” I protest.

“No you wouldn’t.  You were frightened of everything.  Now you’re taking on the oligarchs.”

“That’s the effect five years of working with you has on people, Jane,” Liz laughs. “Helen was so sweet and innocent when she arrived.”

“Like Maria Von Trapp,” Alex agrees. 

“Maria Von Trapp?!  I don’t think so!”

“Oh, you were,” Liz pats my arm. “So keen to do the right thing and impress everyone with your helpfulness and now look at you: running the resistance!”

“From mild mannered novice nun to fearless Nazi-fighter!”  Alex chuckles.

“Hardly!” I snap. “Now, will you three, please, stop making such a big deal of this?”

“No!” They chorus.

“It’s the most outrageous thing you have ever done,” Jane points out. 

“It is not.”

“It is so.  You hate breaking the rules.”

“I do not!”

“You do too. Remember how terrified you were when we tried to spy on Miranda?”

“No.”

“I do,” Alex laughs. “You thought she was going to stab you with a stiletto.”

“I did not!” I fume. “Now, for goodness sake, leave me alone.  I am not breaking The Official Secrets’ Act!  I am simply redressing the balance in a minor employment spat.”

They exchange knowing looks, say nothing, but begin to hum, quietly at first but then louder and louder..

I flounce back to my office with the tune to ”Climb Every Mountain” echoing in my years, only to find that my “minor employment spat” is taking on the makings of an all-out war. 

“Dear Sirs,” reads the fax.

“Please consider this letter to be a Subject Access Request under Section 5 of the Data Protection Act  2002 for all documents pertaining to me.   I enclose a cheque for the sum of  £10.  I trust I shall receive the documents by return.

Many thanks

Amelia Walker.

“What’s a Subject Access Request?” The Boss flings it down on my desk.

“It’s a request for documentation.”

“What sort of documentation?”

“Any sort covered by The Data Protection Act.”  Nice to see he’s up on legislation. “It deals with the processing of personal data.”

His face takes on a flustered, panicked look.  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“About what?”

“The Data Protection Act!”

Since when has it been my job to teach him the law? 

“I assumed you would be aware of it,” I say, calmly.

“Of course I am aware of it!  But it’s not my job to know details!” he erupts.  “I employ people to do that!”

I raise my eyebrows but say nothing.

“So, what?  She’s entitled to all the personal data the firm holds on her?”

“Yes,” I nod.

“Everything?”

“I think so.”

“Who invented a stupid bloody rule like that?!”

“The Government.”

“I know that!!  It was a rhetorical question!” he explodes. 

“Sorry.  I didn’t realise.”

“Didn’t realise?!  Do you think I am so stupid that I don’t know where laws are made?”

Does he really want me to answer that? 

“No,” I lie. “Of course not.”

“Of course not!” His eyes bore down on my like a gargole. “I was reading law when you were reading Goldilocks!”

I stare contritely at the floor, knowing this is the best way to shut him up.  It works.

“Good.” he straightens up, “Now that we’ve straightened that out, perhaps you can explain how we are supposed to deal with this request.”

And, I do; all the time wondering if Amelia is trying flush out more of the “selective euthanasia” information I passed her.   When I have finished, The Boss orders me to get on to the HR team and ask them to comply.

“I’m sorry,” I explain to the assistant, “but Ms Walker is entitled to see any personal data  held on her.”

“Actually,” she says, in the smug, condescending manner HR professionals have of speaking “If you are familiar with The Data Protection Act, you would know that she is only entitled to it so long as it does not cause a, “disproportionate effort” to retrieve it.”

“I am perfectly familiar with The Act,” I reply ”But I do not believe that it would cause your two-hundred-partner, multi-jurisdictional, law firm –  any “disproportionate effort” to locate it.”

“It depends on what you class as, ‘disproportionate effort’,” she sniffs. “The task is delegated to me and I have twenty two prior requests but only one pair of hands.”

“Is there anyone else who can help you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“They laid the rest of them off last week.”

Well, I suppose that’s one way of dealing with Personnel problems.

I report this problem to The Boss, who immediately telephones his evil predatory, partner-friend whilst I sit, poised with my pencil, ready to take down the next set of oppressive instructions. 

“I thought you were supposed to be defending us?” his friend says irritably. 

“I am Phlip.  But I can’t do it without your assistance.”

“You said you were going to scare her off.”

“I tried,” he admits. “But she’s tougher than we thought.  I’m afraid you’re going to have to expend some time and money on this one.”

“By doing what?  Handing over our confidential records?  You must be joking!”

“It’s the law, I’m afraid, Philip.  Your HR Director should have made you aware of that.”

“Oh, she probably did,” he agrees. “But we sacked her three weeks ago.”

“Christ, is there anyone left at your place?”

“We partners are still here.  We haven’t started eating each other yet.”

“Any plans to?” The Boss laughs.

“If things don’t pick up.   It will either be that or the balloon test.”

“What’s that?”

“You know, the one where you’re all in a hot air balloon and you have to choose the most useles one to throw overboard?”

“Ah, yes, of course!” The Boss agrees. “We do something similar at assistant’s appraisal time!”

“Ha ha ha!” The crow in unison.

Ha bloody ha. 

I glare at him but he pretends that I’m not here or, if I am, I am too meaningless to matter.   I make a point of moving my chair, which knocks over several lever arch files and reminds him of my presence.

“We need to get to the bottom of this Subject Access thing.  You’ll have to let us access Amelia’s personal data – do you think you could get one of your minions to sort it out?”

“What would happen if we refuse?”

“Er….”   The Boss looks at me in a panic.

“They will get fined,” I mouth.

“You will  get fined,” he parrots down the receiver.

“Fined!”  snorts his friend. “Oooooooooh, that’s a scary thought!  The Big Bad Information Commissioner might fine us!  How much?”

He looks at me.

“Five thousand pounds,” I reply.  “And she could sue for compensation.”

“Five thousand pounds,” the Boss repeats. “And she could sue for compensation.”

“Pah!  Let her do her worst.  She’s not getting her hands on any of our documents.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely!   If she thinks she can accuse me of harrassment and then force me to assist her claim, she can think again.  Tell her I’ll see her in Court!”

And with that, he disconnects.

“Well, you have it,” The Boss commands. “Write back and tell her to get lost.”

“If I do that.  She will issue proceedings,”I warn.

“Let her.  He enjoys a fight.”  

“Fine.  Then I hope his wife does, too.”

He hadn’t thought of that.   He immediately calls him back.

“Phil, Al again.  Look, perhaps we were a little hasty in dismissing her request.   If we go off with all guns blazing, she’ll issue proceedings and then you’ll have to deal with the publicity and the risk that Harriet might find out…….” he whispers.

“Harriet.”  There is a strange noise at the end of the line, which sounds a bit like a cat regurgintating its supper.

“Although the accusations are obviously untrue,” The Boss says quickly. “It could be a little embarrassing for her to have to read about them in The Daily Mail.”

“Yes.” The voice recovers.  “I take your point.  I know how the papers can distort things.”

“Absolutely!” The Boss purses his lips. “They had the cheek to call me an ‘hectoring bigot’ last year.”

“Really? That’s libellous.”

Not if it’s true.

“Absolutely, anyway, the point is they cannot be trusted.”

“You’re right.  I don’t want Harriet to get wind of these dreadful accusations.   She couldn’t endure the stress.   Better to scare the stupid girl off before it gets to that stage.”

“Ok, then how about this: you send us the documents; we’ll look at them, see how damning they are and then we’ll have another chat?”

“Do I need to send you everything we find?”

The Boss looks at me.  I nod.

“You are supposed to allow her access to all personal data,” he explains.

“Are there any exceptions?”

I shake my head, “None that will apply.”.

“No,” The Boss informs him.

“And what data do we need, exactly?”

I hand The Boss a list, which he reads.

“Anything which identifies the applicant: all paper and electronic files, CCTV images, X-rays…..”

“I don’t think we take X-rays of our assistants,” he observes. “CT scans, yes, but not X-rays.”

“CT scans will do,” The Boss laughs.

“It’s an awful lot of bother for one insignificant little girl, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Do you think she will notice if some of it is missing?”

“Difficult to say if she doesn’t know what should be there…….”

“I knew there was a reason I instructed you!” he laughs.

And with the usual perfunctory goodbyes, he is gone; promising to send it by the end of the week.

The Boss turns to me looking as if he’s chewing a wasp.

“Employers can’t do anything these days without worrying about employee “rights“,” he grumbles.  “It wasn’t like this when I was on the payroll.  Staff couldn’t demand flexible working and personal data - they were just grateful to have a job.

“Things have changed,” I point out.   We have electricity and universal suffrage now too.

“Well, I don’t like it,” he shakes his head. 

“I’m afraid, there’s not much you can do about it,”I point out.

“You’re wrong about that Helen.   As I have moved into employment law,  I shall make it my mission to champion employers rights and ensure that employee upstarts like her get their just desserts!”

Just as I am making it my mission to do precisely the opposite.