Entries for the ‘Work’ Category



Why does it always rain on me?

I hate that song. And yet there I was singing it all the way home, in the rain no less. Of course being British I would moan about the weather – but then I have more reason to than most people. I work at Heathrow airport.

Oh ho! I hear you cry.

Why does that warrant a moan-laden blog post?

Because Heathrow airport is full of holes, so when it rains outside, it’s rains inside too!

There I was putting books out, as per usual, when I felt something wet spray lovingly across my face. Last time I checked there wasn’t much need for water in a bookshop; pages aren’t quite as readable when soggy. And the only time you usually feel a spray of wetness is when a person sneezes and the book they’re holding isn’t quite wide enough to catch the mist… before closing it gently and replacing it on the shelf.

God, I fucking hate it when they do that. Kids are the worst for it.

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It’s been emotional

If anyone was to spot me walking through town early this morning, they would have seen a dishevelled looking woman clutching a bottle of water as if she was trying to dilute a very serious hangover. It didn’t help either that I was walking with a limp, an indication perhaps that I fell over in a drunken state the previous night. Or that my makeup was a sweaty goop spread unevenly across my face.

Eventually I made it home after what felt like a very long walk of shame; my eyes could barely stay open long enough to see whether I was putting the correct key in the lock. And I was in my room for less than a second before I managed to somehow undress myself completely – before finally falling into bed.

For the past few weeks I’ve been somewhat sad about the fact I sleep alone; that there is no warm, pliable body next to mine to hold and cuddle in bed. But this morning, as I stretched my legs out, as I twisted my body horizontally across the mattress and bunched the pillows up into a comfortable mess underneath my head, I was glad there was no one there to get in the way; least not to see the state I was in.

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Please remember to use the door after flushing

The only bit of respite I get at work from people, whether they be customers or travellers, or both, is when I’m either in the toilet or going to put the bins out. I savour these moments like you wouldn’t believe; a hard concept to understand considering both locations stink of shit, but as soon as I’m in my little cubicle or out with the bin compactor, I’m a happy lady.

Escaping the confines of my caged stock room earlier today, I ventured to the bathrooms; one of the many overused and abused locations at Heathrow. I was sitting on the toilet for no more than a few seconds when I heard the unmistakable cries for help in the cubicle next to me.

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I love you know…

I’ve been spending time on the tills recently at work due to staffing issues (basically we don’t have any) which gives me ample opportunity to listen in on other people’s conversations as they wait in the queue.

I love doing this.

It’s the only perk of being a till drone for a few hours; well that and watching people’s reactions after asking them if they want to pay a penny for a bag… anyway.

So picture the scene if you will; I had a queue a mile long. Well, that’s not quite right, it was a mile long AND wide – damn passengers with all their carry on crap. There should be a rule… if you can’t CARRY it in your hands, then you shouldn’t be allowed to take it onboard with you.

Anyway, standing in the queue was a tired but very sweet looking kid who was waiting patiently for his mum to pay for their books. Like all greedy good retailers, we have a selection of products strategically placed around the till area to entice customers to buy them. Because we’re a bookshop, you might think we have, I don’t know… say bookmarks or pens placed around ours. But no, we have chewing gum, nail varnish and card games.

Clearly our retailer knows its market.

Eventually the little kid and his mother reach the counter and as I’m ringing up their items, the kid turns to his mother and says: “Mum I love you know.”

Aww. How sweet I think, as does the mother, who returns the sentiments and says: “I love you too.”

The kid looks confused, I merely wipe my forehead… by god it’s hot… as the mother simply smiles.

“No, no. I mean, I love you know,” he states again whilst pointing to the counter.

The mother looks at the counter.

“UNO? You mean OOH-NO - the card game?”

“Yeah. You know.”

I swear, that fucking kid made my day.



Goodbye my lover.

Carlos

The airport is a trove of lost treasures. It was only last week I found a half eaten sandwich – barely a day old.

I kid, I kid.

It was actually a week out of date.

But yesterday I found something much better than a smelly sandwich. It was a note, a card in fact. Written to a very sexy, handsome (her words, not mine) Spaniard named Carlos.

If you don’t believe me, just enlarge the picture on the left and read for yourself.

You must be wondering why then, I had such a card in my possession. I am not, after all, a sexy, handsome Spaniard named Carlos. Far from it. But a card I had. And it got me thinking. If this Carlos really appreciated Gloria’s heartfelt (if a slab too much cheddar) words, then why was the card tossed by the bin  with less care than you’d find in an old people’s home?

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