Archive for December, 2009

I’d wave hello but I’d probably spray blood all over his nice display.

Posted on December 29th, 2009
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I finish work just after noon when most people are still tucking into their lunches. By this time, I’ve already served a full day at work. I’m tired because I’ve been running around like a mad woman who’s forgotten her medication (I can say this because my mum’s crazy) putting books away and serving customers; and my feet hurt because I’ve had numerous trolleys/suitcases/cages rolled over them. You’d think they’d eventually become numb to the pain. But they don’t.

I walk to one end of the airport to clock out, then, trek to the other side to retireve my bag and jacket. I battle my way through check in and finally exit the building. My journey is far from over. I then brave the travelator and try not to get annoyed when people just stand there on it. Helpful advice: You go faster when you WALK on the damn thing.

I wait impatiently behind a tourist at the ticket barrier in the tube station, watching as they swipe their PAPER ticket against the Oyster card reader. Because of this, I’ve missed my train. I walk to the end of the platform where it’s quiet. I sit on the bench and then, I put my head in my filthy, dry skinned, broken nailed hands, and I whimper quietly.

Working in a bookshop completely wrecks your hands.

Once upon a time my hands used to be soft and supple and if, for some strange reason I’d ever gotten the opportunity to stroke a baby’s bottom, I’d say they used to be as soft as that.

Once upon a time my nails used to look nice. They were long. I used to paint them in various colours. I still have the bottles. Now they are chipped from breaking into the sealed boxes where the books are stored. They are chipped from forcing books into spaces that aren’t really spaces at all; I imagine this is what parting the red sea was like.

And books don’t just magically appear in the shop for me to put out, oh no. I have to pull a hu-uge metal cage through London’s busiest airport, dodging travellers as they stare dumbly at the over-priced -yet tax free!- perfumes that are on display.

Once upon a time my arms were free from bruises.  But hoisting HEAVY boxes of books out from those damned cages gives my arms a very unflattering black and blue and purple quality. Well, if I can’t paint my nails, I suppose I’ll make do with a splash of colour on my arms instead.

All this and I’ve yet to serve a customer. By the time I do, I feel like a filthy vagabond when giving back change. My hands, bloodied and bruised could do with a rest. Unfortunately, that cage still needs to go back – ready to be filled with yet more boxes.

Out I go, cage in tow, huffing and puffing, shouting: EXCUSE ME PLEASE, to anyone who cares to listen. They don’t care. I don’t listen – to their screams as I roll my cage over their toes. I round the corner. And what do I happen to see?

The male sales assistant from the designer handbag shop next door, applying copious amounts of lotion to his hands. Obviously faffing around with those over-priced leather bags all day wreaks havoc on the ol’ hands.

I’d wave hello but I’d probably spray blood all over his nice display.

You look exactly like a human being and yet you sound like a complete arse

Posted on December 10th, 2009
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Some time ago, I wrote a piece on the different reactions I get from customers after telling them a plastic bag will set them back a whole one penny.

Today I encountered a response that not only took the biscuit; it effectively smashed the entire packet into smithereens.

Let me explain.

The transaction started off as most do: customer plonks a bunch of books down on the counter, I proceed to smile at them, (the customer – not the books) I say hello, perhaps comment on their choice of books and then I ask them if they need a bag.

This can go two ways.

They can either say yes or no. If no, I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. I won’t have to bother with the whole one penny spiel. If yes, then I pray to someone’s God.

It went something like this:

Me: Do you need a bag.

(Emphasis on the need part; asking them if they need a bag as opposed to wanting a bag will help me later on, if and when they decide to start an argument.)

Customer: Yes.

Me: The bags are a penny each; is that ok?

(He needed two bags due to the size of his four books – therefore the total cost would be a whole two pence.)

Customer: And you’ll be giving me those bags for free.

(Note there is no question mark at the end of his sentence. He wasn’t suggesting I give him the plastic bags for free, he was demanding.)

Me: No. Like I said, the bags cost a penny. They are a penny for you, just like they were a penny for the customer before you.

Customer: But I have just spent £40 on books.

(This means nothing to me. Considering we charge full retail price for books at airports, £40 doesn’t really buy you much.)

Me: And the customer in front of you just spent £80 on books and they still had to pay for their bags.

(It’s important to note that at this point, he has a nice, good quality bag on the counter from Harrod’s – only half full. He could use that to put the books in and save an argument, he could even put them in his two hand luggage bags he had with him. But no. He wanted his free bags, and he wanted them now.)

Customer: You are fucking ridiculous. Where’s the manager. I want to see the manager.

(I balk at the swear word, not because it offended me, but because the two pence charge was the cause of it.)

Me: They’re in the other shop (about a three minute walk away) you’re welcome to go over there and see them if you’d like. Although to be honest, they would say the same thing as me. The bags cost a penny each.

(He continues ranting and raving for a minute or so and I just stand there staring at a point just left of his head, thinking about what I need to buy after work. When he’s finished, I say-)

Me: Do you know what you sound like?

(Although to be honest, what I really wanted to say was: Wow, you must tell me your secret. You look exactly like a human being and yet you sound like a complete arse; how do you do it?

And you want to know what his original response was?)

Customer: Do you know what you sound like?

(All we needed was a concrete playground and maybe some marbles and we’d have been back in Primary School, I swear, it was that petty.)

Me: So, do you need a bag or not?

Customer: No I do not need a bag.

Me: Funny how you needed one earlier and now, the need is gone.

Customer: Hmph. I don’t even need these books. I can go somewhere else in the airport and buy them.

Me: You could try, but seeing as we’re the only bookshop in the airport, you might have some difficulty.

Customer: This is a fucking disgrace.

(There’s that word again. He grumbles some more. I put his credit card through the till (so it’s not like he even needed to physically find the two pence) and didn’t say much else. Although I got the feeling he wasn’t finished. I was right. He grabbed his books from the counter, putting them in his Harrod’s bag and then, just as he went to leave, he turned to me and said-)

Customer: And I had a great holiday, thanks for asking.

(Of course he was being sarcastic. I neither asked nor cared whether he had a nice holiday or not. But I did respond.)

Me: I love it how you say it just as you’re leaving, just so you can get the last word in.

(He could only glare at me before stalking off to – I assume – go back into whatever hole he had crawled out from.)

I have worked in bookies where I’ve had men (and women) shouting and threatening me after they’ve lost a few hundred pounds, or sometimes even a few grand. These people didn’t bother me. And on some level, I could occasionally sympathise with them.

But this man; getting angry over the cost of two bags at a penny each (which goes to charity anyway) really got on my fucking tits. Fucking asshole.

You were only supposed to blow the bloody jaws open!

Posted on December 7th, 2009
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Take a look in the children’s section of any bookshop and you’ll be sure to find countless titles riding off the success that is Stephanie Meyer. I’ve already blogged my thoughts on the Twilight book series so don’t worry, I’m not going there again.

But I am going somewhere.

This morning saw me do a lot of things; sweeping, dusting, the re-organising of books, serving customers… but then I do that every morning. Only today was different. Today I picked up a book and read the most atrocious first line – ever.

It was more diabolical than the Piccadilly Line during rush hour. And that’s dire in case you were wondering.

The book is called Hush, Hush (as in after reading it you’ll be left speechless) by Becca Fitzpatrick. It’s another Twshite wannabe: so basically it’s a forbidden love story involving all kinds of supernatural beings.

There’s no other way to prepare you for it, other than to throw you straight into the deep end and hope you’re still breathing afterwards.

And I quote:

I walked into biology and my jaw fell open.

And let me tell you, mine did the exact same thing after reading. Not only is this sentence awkward, clumsy and disgustingly passive, but the scene has been blatantly ripped from Twilight, when Bella walks into… you guessed it… her biology class.

It gets worse. I then went on to read the most atrocious second line – ever.

Mysteriously adhered to the chalkboard was a Barbie doll, with Ken at her side. They’d been forced to link arms and were naked except for artificial leaves placed in a few choice locations.

Mysteriously adhered? Well at least we know they can (ab)use a thesaurus. How is this shit getting published? Then again, a recent report claimed that most 11 years olds leave primary school unable to read and write properly. So what do they care?