28 July 2008
Well, another utterly thrilling day at Focus ‘for diy and gardening’ has ensued. I am now officially ready to give the noose that’s hung loosely around my neck for the past two months a nice firm tug.
The general public have long been the bane of my life. I do not enjoy queuing alongside them in supermarkets, driving amongst them, or indeed sitting next to the plump, perspiring variety on planes. Needless to say, I enjoy even less serving them for nine hours a day to earn a pittance at my mundane part time job at a failing DIY store.
Old people are the worst, in every respect. Rude, ignorant, painfully slow and utterly moronic. They scowl as they edge towards the checkouts, using the trolley as a substitute zimmer frame on which to lean their entire weight. When they eventually arrive within earshot, the friendly ‘Good afternoon’ I have mastered so impeccably is immediately silenced with a suspicious glare. If purchasing any item heavier than a pack of nails, they stare incredulously as you try a cheery wave goodbye, before spitting ‘Well clearly I’m going to need some help to my car.’ (That’ll be the Volvo parked illegally on the double yellows two feet from the entrance, then). That’s another thing about pensioners, they get away with everything.
29 July 2008
The roof has fallen in. The entire store has flooded, several drownings have occurred and Focus, along with all its socially rejected staff, is no more.
Well, they say imagination is healthy. The fact of the matter is, the spot of rain we incurred yesterday was evidently a spot too much for the roof in the foyer to cope with, resulting in a leak lasting a full 24 hours. A most curious affair, considering the shower itself only lasted about 24 seconds. Naturally though, being a DIY store, we had no products at our disposal suitable for fixing such a problem, so decided the best option would be to just watch it drip all over the floor and keep letting the customers in. Hazardous and irresponsible? Steady on. There was a bucket positioned three feet away from the leak ready to catch any back-splash, after all.
The powers that be eventually decided shutting the entrance might be a wise idea when the area between the two sets of automatic doors began to resemble a fish tank. Much bafflement and confusion ensued as those customers unable to follow the instruction ‘use other doors’ stood pitifully, peering through the locked glass, occasionally giving it a shove with their trolley to see if that would do the trick.
Having finally negotiated their way into the store, it seemed a couple of befuddled customers had trouble finding their way out again. In the end, they were forced to exit through the emergency doors at the back of the shop, completely forgetting to pay for their purchases! Silly sausages. Still, I’m sure the minute they realise their mistake they’ll be back, all purses and apologies.
30 July 2008
Today it rained. Again. And I was given the highly important task of sticking reduced labels on all of the dead plants in the garden centre. Honoured, I’m sure. When I tried to protest that such filthy weather doesn’t agree with my straightened hair, the manager’s face resembled that of someone who found my point utterly trivial. Unbelievable.
Still, the upside of being dumped out there (without so much as one of Focus's ultra-fashionable high visibility waterproof cagoules) is that people tend not to bother you. Mainly because nobody else is stupid enough to be out in the pissing rain, but also because the moment a marker pen and some price change labels are produced, customers assume a major operation must be underway and back off. (Seeing a member of staff actually doing some work is a very rare, astonishing sight that’s always short-lived, you see. Rather like the witnessing of an eclipse.)
As I skulked about trying to look productive, a rising wisp of smoke coming from the other side of the yard caught my eye. Upon further investigation, I discovered the manager wedged between two pallets, inconspicuously puffing away on a Benson and Hedges. The calibre of the man. Still, at least it wasn’t a Lambert and Butler.
As the day wore on, the weather improved and the customers started to crawl out of the woodwork. My efforts to look impossibly busy failed to fool one woman, who midway through browsing the conifers, launched into a lengthy rigmarole about her next door neighbour from hell. I stood awkwardly, attempting to chuckle in the right places whilst edging away as discreetly as possible. She didn’t seem to notice my discomfort however, and proceeded to follow me around the garden centre blazing on about what a ‘lazy little bitch’ her neighbour was for letting her garden overgrow, and the ongoing dispute between them over a garden gate.
Sometimes I wonder if my life isn’t a little empty for failing to engage in such dramatic rifts with those living two doors down.
27 February, 2011
Not so Supermarkets
Visiting the supermarket is one of those tiresome, weekly chores we all must endure in order to avoid starving to death. Unless you choose to do your grocery shopping online, which admittedly has its benefits – not having to vacate the sofa, as well as its drawbacks – trusting an unknown Asda/Tesco employee to pick out vegetables that aren't already covered in fur, and to know that normal pasta is not an acceptable substitute for wheat-free.
But, perhaps by finding food shopping an altogether irritating, tedious task, I am in the minority. It would certainly seem that way if my last few trips to the supermarket are anything to go by. Who knew that the foundations for a fun-packed day for the entire family could be built on running out of eggs and milk? Cheaper than the cinema, a trip to the supermarket with every household member in tow appears to have become the weekend activity of choice for unimaginative parents who can't think of any better way to spend their Saturdays.
I go on the occasional supermarket trip with Chris and come out needing a dose of Valium and a couple of relationship counselling sessions – and we don't even have children. Or live together. A typical food shop with Chris usually goes something like this: he makes a list, consisting mostly of tinned peaches, Snickers bars and various packets of bizarre grains and pulses that Runner's World magazine has promised will turn him into an Olympic athlete; he puts said items into the trolley, before proceeding to stride in a methodical, purposeful fashion up and down every single aisle in the entire store. Why? 'In case I need something that I've forgotten to put on the list.' From the feminine hygiene section? Right. Not that I'm in any particular hurry to get to the checkout, where Chris spends most of the process wringing his hands and barking at me for bagging the groceries up in the wrong order.
In short, I prefer going shopping alone. It's just unfortunate that other people don't seem to share the same attitude. At the weekends, my local supermarket undergoes an abrupt transformation into an unmanned crèche, because, while most parents seem willing to bring their herd of offspring to the supermarket, they're surprisingly reluctant to take responsibility for them once they've arrived.
On my last visit, for example, I rounded a corner with my trolley and almost mowed down a stray, sticky-fingered infant who was pawing casually through the birthday cards, no obvious parental unit in sight. And then there was the chubby young boy who barged past me, arms laden with sweets, apparently on a lone mission to clear out the entire confectionary aisle.
After an hour or so of allowing their children to run amok, some parents try, and fail, to assert a little belated authority over them. 'That's enough! Stop asking for things, because you're not having anything!' bellowed one father to his whining daughter, with all the impact of shouting at a brick wall. Still, at least he gave it a shot. Unlike the many parents with no backbone who forget how to form the word 'no' around their children. 'Why don't you get these sweeties instead, darling? Then you can afford three packets with your pocket money,' cooed one spineless mother, in a pathetic effort to placate her snivelling son.
And then it's time to pay. A relatively simple part of the supermarket experience, you may think. But evidently not for the large-and-in-charge family of four I encountered on Saturday. As they slogged along the aisle at a pace that would inconvenience most snails, I found myself jerking from side to side behind them, searching for a gap, a crack of light even between their colossal forms, that I might slip through in a sly endeavour to overtake. In fact, all I succeeded in doing was knocking a bunch of gift cards off a shelf and adding to the hold up. Apruptly(ish), they halted in confusion. 'Oh! You have to do it yourself on these ones,' dad wheezed, pointing at the self-checkouts as though they were an entirely new phenomenon that haven't been around for years. This gave way to much incoherent muttering, before they all hefted themselves back off the way they'd just come.
When I finally made it into the self-checkout queue, I was second in line. Or so I thought. However, it seemed the lady and gentleman who joined the queue after me had other ideas. They decided to form their own line, adjacent to mine. In their minds, they were waiting for the checkouts on the right, and we were waiting for those on the left. Well, actually, no. It doesn't work like that. I was here first, therefore I will be smoothing into the first available booth thank you very much. This bizarre behaviour can often be witnessed at cashpoints too, and in toilets with two entrances. Look out for it.
But the trouble doesn't end there. Along with having to scan every item at least three times, and wait patiently until the forgetful checkout realises that actually it was expecting the 'unexpected item in the bagging area', there are also self-serving neighbours to contend with. As I went to plonk my basket down, I noticed the woman on the next checkout was using mine as some kind of overflow area for her handbag. I gingerly lifted the straps and was gently pushing it to one side when she turned on me. 'You are touching my bag!' she screeched, snatching it up as though I were about to make off with it. I felt like saying, 'Calm down love, stained canvas isn't my style,' but settled for the classic eye roll and pitying shake of the head instead.
My online shopping is being delivered tomorrow. I figured if it means avoiding tripping over the young, getting stuck behind the slow and generally enduring the presence of the public, receiving a couple of furry courgettes is one small price I'm more than willing to pay.
But, perhaps by finding food shopping an altogether irritating, tedious task, I am in the minority. It would certainly seem that way if my last few trips to the supermarket are anything to go by. Who knew that the foundations for a fun-packed day for the entire family could be built on running out of eggs and milk? Cheaper than the cinema, a trip to the supermarket with every household member in tow appears to have become the weekend activity of choice for unimaginative parents who can't think of any better way to spend their Saturdays.
I go on the occasional supermarket trip with Chris and come out needing a dose of Valium and a couple of relationship counselling sessions – and we don't even have children. Or live together. A typical food shop with Chris usually goes something like this: he makes a list, consisting mostly of tinned peaches, Snickers bars and various packets of bizarre grains and pulses that Runner's World magazine has promised will turn him into an Olympic athlete; he puts said items into the trolley, before proceeding to stride in a methodical, purposeful fashion up and down every single aisle in the entire store. Why? 'In case I need something that I've forgotten to put on the list.' From the feminine hygiene section? Right. Not that I'm in any particular hurry to get to the checkout, where Chris spends most of the process wringing his hands and barking at me for bagging the groceries up in the wrong order.
In short, I prefer going shopping alone. It's just unfortunate that other people don't seem to share the same attitude. At the weekends, my local supermarket undergoes an abrupt transformation into an unmanned crèche, because, while most parents seem willing to bring their herd of offspring to the supermarket, they're surprisingly reluctant to take responsibility for them once they've arrived.
On my last visit, for example, I rounded a corner with my trolley and almost mowed down a stray, sticky-fingered infant who was pawing casually through the birthday cards, no obvious parental unit in sight. And then there was the chubby young boy who barged past me, arms laden with sweets, apparently on a lone mission to clear out the entire confectionary aisle.
After an hour or so of allowing their children to run amok, some parents try, and fail, to assert a little belated authority over them. 'That's enough! Stop asking for things, because you're not having anything!' bellowed one father to his whining daughter, with all the impact of shouting at a brick wall. Still, at least he gave it a shot. Unlike the many parents with no backbone who forget how to form the word 'no' around their children. 'Why don't you get these sweeties instead, darling? Then you can afford three packets with your pocket money,' cooed one spineless mother, in a pathetic effort to placate her snivelling son.
And then it's time to pay. A relatively simple part of the supermarket experience, you may think. But evidently not for the large-and-in-charge family of four I encountered on Saturday. As they slogged along the aisle at a pace that would inconvenience most snails, I found myself jerking from side to side behind them, searching for a gap, a crack of light even between their colossal forms, that I might slip through in a sly endeavour to overtake. In fact, all I succeeded in doing was knocking a bunch of gift cards off a shelf and adding to the hold up. Apruptly(ish), they halted in confusion. 'Oh! You have to do it yourself on these ones,' dad wheezed, pointing at the self-checkouts as though they were an entirely new phenomenon that haven't been around for years. This gave way to much incoherent muttering, before they all hefted themselves back off the way they'd just come.
When I finally made it into the self-checkout queue, I was second in line. Or so I thought. However, it seemed the lady and gentleman who joined the queue after me had other ideas. They decided to form their own line, adjacent to mine. In their minds, they were waiting for the checkouts on the right, and we were waiting for those on the left. Well, actually, no. It doesn't work like that. I was here first, therefore I will be smoothing into the first available booth thank you very much. This bizarre behaviour can often be witnessed at cashpoints too, and in toilets with two entrances. Look out for it.
But the trouble doesn't end there. Along with having to scan every item at least three times, and wait patiently until the forgetful checkout realises that actually it was expecting the 'unexpected item in the bagging area', there are also self-serving neighbours to contend with. As I went to plonk my basket down, I noticed the woman on the next checkout was using mine as some kind of overflow area for her handbag. I gingerly lifted the straps and was gently pushing it to one side when she turned on me. 'You are touching my bag!' she screeched, snatching it up as though I were about to make off with it. I felt like saying, 'Calm down love, stained canvas isn't my style,' but settled for the classic eye roll and pitying shake of the head instead.
My online shopping is being delivered tomorrow. I figured if it means avoiding tripping over the young, getting stuck behind the slow and generally enduring the presence of the public, receiving a couple of furry courgettes is one small price I'm more than willing to pay.
19 February, 2011
Two Legs Good, Two Wheels Bad
I don't like bikes. I am also rapidly going off people who ride them. There are a number of reasons for this, which I fully intend to bore you with over the following paragraphs. As such, I would like to open this post with an amusing anecdote about my 2010 near-death cycling experience.
Picture the scene: It's my birthday, and Chris and I have just arrived at our idyllic New Forest retreat for the weekend. I am about to get stuck into what I anticipate to be the first of many, many cupcakes when there is a knock at the door. It's the owner, bearing the terrible news that he has two bicycles we are welcome to use free of charge. Chris's face lights up whilst I recoil in horror at the very mention of the word and the notion of exercise it implies.
I hadn't even been near a bike since my previous near-death experience aged 14, where there was an incident involving me, Molly, one bike and a kerb, which saw Molly walk away unscathed and me confined to the house for an entire week whilst my nose reconstructed itself. And now I was once again expected to saddle up? It wasn't until I came to terms with the inevitable, i.e. Chris getting his own way, that I realised a bit of saddle sore would be the least of my worries. The conversation shortly before setting off on our intrepid adventure went something like this:
Me: Er, what do you think you're doing?
Chris: Putting your helmet on
Me: I am not wearing a helmet
Chris: You are wearing a helmet
Me: I am not wearing a helmet
Chris: You are wearing the helmet
I wore the helmet. Probably a good job really, as I'm quite sure riding out in front of that car would've been a lot scarier without one. Although at least I'd have been road kill with good hair. What was a car doing on a cycle path anyway, I hear you ask? Well, over the years Chris has realised that in order to make me do something I don't want to do, he must continue to lie until he's sure there's no possible way I could back out. Bearing this in mind, he informs me as we approach the T junction that I will have to endure a mile on a 60mph road to reach the cycle path. Which for most people would obviously not be a big deal. I am not most people.
Upon hearing the instruction to turn right, I immediately veered into the path of oncoming traffic, skidding down a country lane before eventually coming to a halt outside a pub (convenient), leaving Chris apologising profusely to a collection of motorists for my mental inadequacy. I then proceeded to wobble a further 100 yards down the lane before falling off due to sheer terror at the sight of a car approaching. No really, I am this cool. Suffice to say, I have not endangered my life or the sanity of others since.
Other people and their bikes, however, are not so easily avoided. When I'm in the car and I see a cyclist wobbling along up ahead it is quite frankly one of my worst driving-related nightmares (second only to negotiating Hemel's magic roundabout). 'Can I get past them, give them a wide enough berth and still make it back on to my side of the road before smashing into that oncoming bus?' etc. By which time, my dithering and deliberating has left me only two less than desirable options: speed past erratically, or crawl along on their tail in a fashion which is sure to be both threatening to the cyclist and utterly infuriating to any motorist caught in my wake.
Saying that, there are some cyclists I would happily mow down: for example, the gentleman who brandished me a 'fucking fucker' after trying and failing to cut me up on a dual carriageway, or the herd of cyclists who rampaged past my aunt, bellowing 'Get out the way', almost sending her plunging into the canal as she walked along the tow path to work.
As a pedestrian working in London, I also frequently find myself on the receiving end of cyclists' misplaced sense of importance. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression that it's the law to stop at a zebra crossing if a pedestrian has already stepped out. But there must be some new piece of legislation I've missed which states cyclists, white van drivers and people who just don't really feel like stopping are exempt, which would explain my daily brushes with toelessness.
Oh, and fyi, this imaginary piece of legislation that all cyclists now adhere to also means they can ignore red traffic lights, thump and kick the sides of cars that get in their way, make obscene, angry gestures at pedestrians for no apparent reason and veer up on to the pavement whenever they fancy. The other day I actually found myself apologising and hopping out of the way of a Royal Mail man who came speeding along the path towards me. Instead of saying 'No, I'M sorry for riding illegally on the pavement, whilst you, a pedestrian, are perfectly entitled to be here', he merely glared and swerved around me.
So here's a little message for our puffed-up, two-wheeled friends. Cyclists: pipe down. You are nothing special. You are merely slightly speedier pedestrians who have lost the privilege to use the pavement and gained a wardrobe full of unflattering fluorescent clothing. If you smack the side of my car in a temper, I will open the door as you ride past. If you swear at me whilst I'm using a pedestrian crossing, I will stick my foot out in front of you. In either scenario, I can't see me coming off worse. So behave, or on yer bike! (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)
Picture the scene: It's my birthday, and Chris and I have just arrived at our idyllic New Forest retreat for the weekend. I am about to get stuck into what I anticipate to be the first of many, many cupcakes when there is a knock at the door. It's the owner, bearing the terrible news that he has two bicycles we are welcome to use free of charge. Chris's face lights up whilst I recoil in horror at the very mention of the word and the notion of exercise it implies.
I hadn't even been near a bike since my previous near-death experience aged 14, where there was an incident involving me, Molly, one bike and a kerb, which saw Molly walk away unscathed and me confined to the house for an entire week whilst my nose reconstructed itself. And now I was once again expected to saddle up? It wasn't until I came to terms with the inevitable, i.e. Chris getting his own way, that I realised a bit of saddle sore would be the least of my worries. The conversation shortly before setting off on our intrepid adventure went something like this:
Me: Er, what do you think you're doing?
Chris: Putting your helmet on
Me: I am not wearing a helmet
Chris: You are wearing a helmet
Me: I am not wearing a helmet
Chris: You are wearing the helmet
I wore the helmet. Probably a good job really, as I'm quite sure riding out in front of that car would've been a lot scarier without one. Although at least I'd have been road kill with good hair. What was a car doing on a cycle path anyway, I hear you ask? Well, over the years Chris has realised that in order to make me do something I don't want to do, he must continue to lie until he's sure there's no possible way I could back out. Bearing this in mind, he informs me as we approach the T junction that I will have to endure a mile on a 60mph road to reach the cycle path. Which for most people would obviously not be a big deal. I am not most people.
Upon hearing the instruction to turn right, I immediately veered into the path of oncoming traffic, skidding down a country lane before eventually coming to a halt outside a pub (convenient), leaving Chris apologising profusely to a collection of motorists for my mental inadequacy. I then proceeded to wobble a further 100 yards down the lane before falling off due to sheer terror at the sight of a car approaching. No really, I am this cool. Suffice to say, I have not endangered my life or the sanity of others since.
Other people and their bikes, however, are not so easily avoided. When I'm in the car and I see a cyclist wobbling along up ahead it is quite frankly one of my worst driving-related nightmares (second only to negotiating Hemel's magic roundabout). 'Can I get past them, give them a wide enough berth and still make it back on to my side of the road before smashing into that oncoming bus?' etc. By which time, my dithering and deliberating has left me only two less than desirable options: speed past erratically, or crawl along on their tail in a fashion which is sure to be both threatening to the cyclist and utterly infuriating to any motorist caught in my wake.
Saying that, there are some cyclists I would happily mow down: for example, the gentleman who brandished me a 'fucking fucker' after trying and failing to cut me up on a dual carriageway, or the herd of cyclists who rampaged past my aunt, bellowing 'Get out the way', almost sending her plunging into the canal as she walked along the tow path to work.
As a pedestrian working in London, I also frequently find myself on the receiving end of cyclists' misplaced sense of importance. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression that it's the law to stop at a zebra crossing if a pedestrian has already stepped out. But there must be some new piece of legislation I've missed which states cyclists, white van drivers and people who just don't really feel like stopping are exempt, which would explain my daily brushes with toelessness.
Oh, and fyi, this imaginary piece of legislation that all cyclists now adhere to also means they can ignore red traffic lights, thump and kick the sides of cars that get in their way, make obscene, angry gestures at pedestrians for no apparent reason and veer up on to the pavement whenever they fancy. The other day I actually found myself apologising and hopping out of the way of a Royal Mail man who came speeding along the path towards me. Instead of saying 'No, I'M sorry for riding illegally on the pavement, whilst you, a pedestrian, are perfectly entitled to be here', he merely glared and swerved around me.
So here's a little message for our puffed-up, two-wheeled friends. Cyclists: pipe down. You are nothing special. You are merely slightly speedier pedestrians who have lost the privilege to use the pavement and gained a wardrobe full of unflattering fluorescent clothing. If you smack the side of my car in a temper, I will open the door as you ride past. If you swear at me whilst I'm using a pedestrian crossing, I will stick my foot out in front of you. In either scenario, I can't see me coming off worse. So behave, or on yer bike! (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)
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