Reasons why you should never want to work in customer service

 Reasons why you should never want to work in customer service –

-          I’m sorry. Did your mother ever teach you how to queue? Yeah, because obviously I knew you were next in line, seeing as how you joined the cluster of swarming walking greed in a desperate bid to be the first for coffee. You’re like wasps struggling to get out of an upside down tumbler glass. No! Don’t worry! You’re not going to suffocate! I’m sure you will survive if you wait just three minutes for your regular fucking black filter with hot milk. 

-          Customer: “I’d like a black coffee with milk please.”

Me: “Erm…… ok, so…. A white coffee, then.”

Customer: (angrily.) “No. No a black coffee. I want it black. With milk.”

Me: “Riiiiiiiiighhhht ok. So….”

Customer: “Just make me a black coffee”

Me: (Making the black coffee) “There you go.”

Customer: “Where’s the milk?”

(Oh. Brilliant.)

-          Customer:   “Is this cream or milk?”

(Need I say any more?!)

-          Customer: “Is my bacon bap coming as a take-away?”

Me: “Did you order it as a take-away?”

Customer: “I just ordered a bacon bap.”

Me: “Right so… you didn’t order it as a take-away?”

Customer: “No, I didn’t. I just ordered it just now with the lady over there.”

Me: “Right, yeah, but… you didn’t say: ‘I would like this as a take-away’ when you ordered it?”

        Silence.

Customer: No.

        Silence.

Ok hang on one moment while I tune in telepathically with the chefs to let them know that you wanted a take-away. Because clearly we are very skilled in body language and we already realised that what you actually wanted was to take the bap home. Obviously we knew that. Of course it is coming as a take-away. We always read minds.

-          Customer: “Are the chicken fajitas suitable for vegetarians?”

(Are you safe to be out by yourself?)

-          Customer: “I don’t like nuts and you didn’t tell me the coffee and walnut cake had nuts in it.”

Me: Right. Well. I am very sorry about that. Would you like me to change it for another cake that doesn’t actually have the name of a nut in the title?”

(I am worried about your mental health.)

-          Management: “Can you just take the cake out of fridge and get rid of all the crumbs?”

(So…. you want me to throw the whole cake away then?)

(It’s a fucking cake!)

                                                                                                                                                (CAKE IS CRUMBS!)

-          Customer: “A tea with the tea-bag left out please.”

Me: “Ok, so, yeah, I’ll take the tea bag out for you if you’d like.”

Customer: No, don’t take it out, I want the tea bag out.”

Me: “Yeah, I’ll take it out.”

Customer: “No I mean – I want the tea bag out.”

Me: Ok so…

Customer: JUST GIVE ME A CUP OF HOT WATER AND A TEA BAG.”

Me: “Jeez. Ok, calm down. You could have just said that in the first place.”

-          Customer: “I’d like a hot orange please.”

Me: “Erm… a hot orange?”

Customer: (Looking at me as though I am stupid) “Yeah. A hot orange. They’re quite easy to make.”

                                                        (Is that a drink or is it literally an orange in the microwave?)

Me: (looking disgusted) “You just want an orange juice with hot water?”

Customer: “A hot orange.”

Me: “Yeah so a drop of orange squash and then hot water.”

Customer: (getting pissed off) “Just pour an orange squash and add some hot water. They are really quite simple.”

                                                                                        (Isn’t that what I just said?)

Me: (smiling) There you go, lovely.

                                        (That’s disgusting. Next time I’m going to refuse to serve you.)

-          Customer: (Pointing at any one item out of the one hundred in the fridge.)

Silence.

Me: Sorry. What was that you’d like?

Customer: (Pointing again.)

Silence.

Me: I’m sorry I can’t see what you’re pointing at.

Customer: The muffin.

(There are five different forms of muffins.)

Ok. Lets just get my telepathic brain on again. Oh! I know what muffin it is you want! It is the dickhead muffin!

                                                       So. Fucking. Rude.

The Three Best Things In Life

The three best things in life:

Wine, sex, and chocolate brownies. The equation to any happy female.

Of course, the wine and the chocolate brownies can be swapped in and out for other things. For example – beer, crisps, and sex. Possibly wine, beer and sex, if you have the following day off work and you’re up for a hangover. Or even, ‘David Attenborough’s Frozen Planet,’ crisps, and sex. Because David Attenborough’s voice is like sex itself, so you get a double portion. Plus you get the information. And the realisation that you’re not a very important member of the planet after all, which kind of makes you feel less bad about being a shit person and a solid underachiever.

Anyway, if one of those things is missing from your girlfriends life –

Holy. Shit. Balls.

She is no longer that sweet looking girl with the just-so-sweet-sounding voice who you used to believe would make an excellent mother to your children. She is transformed, a demon, a crazed shell of everything blown out of proportion – she’s like the contraceptive pill in walking form, bad PMS summarised in the outline of your previous beloved, she is the representation of her own reaction when you forgot (after a year and a half) what her middle name was, except this time she NEVER lets it slip, she is -

Get that hard-on, get that hard-on, COME ON BOY, please dear Lord, save me before she –

And what makes it worse is that when she is in this state, deprived of alcohol sugar or sex depending, she reminds you somewhat of your own mother.

Oh. So that’s the way the world works. And now you know why your parent’s marriage is failing.

Definitely doesn’t help matters. No. Makes it worse. Unsurprisingly.

You better get your mind in gear boy. You better get on that Tesco trip. You better get yourself aroused and in the game regardless of whether or whether not your girlfriend is wearing her ‘snuggle pants’ and has a massive cold resulting in an ugly blotchy face, because until all her needs are achieved - as you have learnt from the True Voice of Nature that is David Attenborough himself - she will be hormonal, needy, desperate and just plain ANGRY.

This is a warning.

It's THAT time of year again.........

It is that time of year again.

The start of the year.

 Back to work.

  

 Feeling good (?!)

Everybody feels good in the first ten days of January.

Fresh hopes.

Clean starts.

New clothes.

A whole NEW year……

Isn’t it exciting(?!)

Think of all the GOOD STUFF that might happen!

All the exciting adventures!

The strange NEW places!

The crazy NEW people!

All the NEW stuff!

Everybody just loves the word NEW!

NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW !!!!

 (Am I even spelling it right?....... Who cares! Let’s invent a NEW spelling for it!!!)

(Such bullshit.)

No. The new year is only the New Year for ten days, tops. It’s all about the first ten days, really, isn’t it? Those precious first ten. The first ten in which you stare ahead at all the unmarked days on the calendar and you think ‘what great things am I going to achieve this year, on February the second?’ Or ‘who may I meet on October thirteenth?’ or ‘Perhaps I’ll win a cash prize in March?’

Anything after the first ten and the questions you start asking upon reviewing the steadily filling calendar turn into ‘who’s going to get divorced this year?’ ‘What member of the family is going to make the dreaded decision to have the dog put down?’ ‘Who is going to be responsible for the mad old deteriorating granny?’ And the bizarrely addictive question that crosses everyone’s minds (though they might deny it) ‘Which one of us is going to die this year?’

Anything after the first ten days of January and suddenly you realise you have already failed to uphold your new years resolutions, you’re definitely NOT going to succeed in losing that extra half a stone you gained ‘just because it was Christmas’ and NO, you’re not going to get that promotion at work because at the staff Christmas party you got too pissed, came on to a married forty year old (actually, you don’t know if this true as you don’t remember, but the main thing is IT MIGHT HAVE ACTUALLY HAPPENED) proceeded to vomit, and now you’re left with the realisation that you can’t remember how you got home.

We’ve all been there, haven’t we?

Haven’t we?

Haven’t…. Haven’t we…..?!

                                                                                                (Guys………………………………….?!)

I just want to snuggle with someone.

January is one big month-long hangover, because after Christmas and New Year, you literally need one month to recover.  It is still within the first ten days of January, and I am still feeling good about my many resolutions! I am bright, happy, attentive, excited, prosperous, WIDE-EYED, feeling sparkly, spritzy, spritely, I am –

Who the fuck am I kidding?! I am bleary-eyed, stiff, blotchy, tired, achy, paranoid about the way I acted at staff party night, in sight, I AM HUNGOVER AS FUCK

HOWEVER

The moral of the story is….

I AM STAYING POSITIVE!!!

Yes. Positive about being positive! Positivity breeds positivity. You breathe in oxygen and out comes positivity! You eat a piece of cheese and out comes positivity! You realise you will not succeed at your new years resolution to lose half a stone if you don’t stop eating cheese, but admitting this results in positivity!

And do you know why you are so positive?!

YES! YES YOU DO!

Because it is not the sodding shitty year of 2011 anymore!

Yes. There were many trials and tribulations during 2011 and I'm sure I am not the only person of my age who is happy to waver them goodbye!

MICROGYNON, to start. The contraceptive pill you should consider taking if you think that sex is worth depression.                                                         (It clearly is.)

Pop this pill and start crying when there is no milk in the fridge, cry when nobody opens the car door for you (why would they? You are worthless and irritating and good for nothing!)Cry because the cat that lives next door has only got three legs (its only ever had three legs.) Cry because… you are crying!

The onset of graduation – Everybody tricked you into thinking you were waving goodbye to education (hurrah, finally!) and into the exciting world of work. They forgot to take into consideration that a) you actually quite liked the bubble of bliss that was education; the unwavering belief that what you were studying actually mattered, the confines of an age where you could go out and party on a student loan and then complete your work in your own time*. Oh… and point b) There was no work. So…….

*Note the key phrase

Not only that, 2011 said a lot about you as a person, I imagine. For example, my mother, stepfather and younger brother decided to up sticks and move to Abu Dhabi. Rather than go with them, I stayed in England. This was firstly interesting, and secondly…. Mildy interesting. I am still, as it currently stands, trying to understand myself. From this recognition I have concluded I DO NOT KNOW MYSELF which apparently goes against all youthful gangster morals. Meaning I am not a gangster. 

Following that summary, I also had a birth mark removed from my face in 2011, because it was said that 30% of those particular little cheeky monkeys apparently turn out cancerous. I decided to put my cards on the table and resign myself to the scalpel… and the safety of the knowledge that it would stop bleeding, itching, pussing, growing (yes, I do believe it was growing!)  and all in all looking like a massive scab that would occasionally sprout a random lump. I was very fond of my birthmark, and it was a sad, sad day seeing it removed (yes, I literally saw it removed as it was directly under my eye.) From this choice of action I deduce that I am not a risk taker. Or in actual fact, I am just not bloody stupid enough to keep a piece of skin to save my face. I also quite like scars. So……

This last one is particularly hard to admit, but during 2011 I had to give up my captaincy of the RH Tom Cats, my University Cheerleading Squad. I hung up my Kaepas and waved goodbye to fitness,

HOWEVER –

Positivity breeds positivity, and I’m sure I’ll be coaching again (nod nod wink wink watch this space 2012 NEW SQUAD?!?!)

BOOM!

2011 is so inadequate right now it’s like the dot on top of a capital letter ‘I’, it’s like a designer handbag that you can’t keep pens in, it’s like the scar from a badly missed birthmark that ISN’T CANCER, it’s like…. Out the door and round the corner! And we are veering straight into 2012 with the complete knowledge that this year YOU ARE GOING TO BE WHOLE-HEARTEDLY SELFISH!!!!

Yay!

Dealing with friend envy

Dealing with Friend Enzy.

You are all staring at the bag.

  There is a stunned silence around the room, no-one even likes the bag, the bag is just a bag, an ordinary bog-standard normal-sized bag, perfect for bog-standard, normal sized items such as… wallets, and keys, and a comb, and a pen, and –

 

   Oh no. No no. (Tittle tattle chirping laugh like an irritating bird) You couldn’t put a pen in there, it just might leak all over THE BAG. And oh no. No lipstick. No way. Imagine! Lipstick! On this bag! This Bag! This bag that cost a lot of money (chuckle chuckle chuckle) no, you couldn’t put a pen in this bag, in actual fact, take out the tissues, who carries tissues in a bag like this?!?! This isn’t the fucking toilet, love, tissues, dear me, dear oh dear, NO I’M AFRAID I CAN’T CARRY YOUR UMBRELLA FOR YOU IN THIS BAG, IF YOU WANTED TO TAKE YOUR UMBRELLA YOU SHOULD HAVE BOUGHT YOUR OWN REALLY CHEAP BAG SO AS NOT TO STRETCH THE LEATHER OF THIS HOLY PIECE OF FABRIC WORTHY OF THE WORSHIP OF –

DON’T - touch the bag so tightly. Please. Just look at it. Just look.

  So there we all are. Staring at the bag. But it’s just a normal bag. BORING. Come on. Oh… come on! Yawn! I’M YAWNING! Look at me I’M YAWNING, someone please bang a drum because I AM BORED. HELLO?! I’M BORED! I’m sorry, are we ready to talk now, because the silence over this bag IS BORING ME!

 ……………….    And you look around the circle, that is looking at the bag, that is looking STRAIGHT AT YOU, and you start to laugh because you think it is a joke, but then you turn the laugh into a cough because you start to feel really awkward, as you realise the bag has this goading little lure between its little beaded eyes, and now you’re pretty freaked out, because it’s got this little annoying smile on it’s tan-coloured hide and it is really pissing you off, and suddenly - it opens its little buckled mouth like a sneering back-handed slap round the face and it whispers –

  

‘Everything you never had….                      Everything you never had….’

     I can still hear its voice. Warbling like an old lady ghost.

You do a double take and you look around at your friend’s faces who are staring with reverence at this idle piece of leather as though witnessing the birth of Christ himself and you’re thinking…..

Fuck.

         It’s just a bag.      

                               Gulp.  

Guys?!    Guys?!    Shall we….?!   Do you want to….?!  Shall we just pretend…..?!    How about we…?! Or maybe we should just – oh fuck it the bag is real and it is staring at you clean in the face, very much like the extra half a stone you pretend you can’t see when you stand on the scales, or for example the spot on the left side of your face you can only see if you turn your head.  

It’s fine, don’t even worry about it, it’s only a bag. (Sideways glance)

How much did it cost you?

‘It was a present actually, from my parents.’

Gulp. Why?

‘Because I cleaned the car for them.’

Gulp. What the fuck.

 ‘Please don’t squeeze it so tightly. You’ll ruin the leather.’

(Fuck. Was I doing that? Me? Really?)

‘Leather is expensive.’

How much did it cost them?

Tittle tittle TATTLE tittle FUCK KNOWS.

               SPEECHLESS IN THE PRESENCE OF THE BAG. And now you have become one of them.

Overdraft.

You’re in your overdraft.

There’s a massive zero and it’s hanging over your head like a stormy rain cloud of road rage.

MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY–

DEBT.

TAXES.

A whirlwind of thoughts collide inside your head like there is a disco, your own private utopia, selling the bag, that would mean stealing the bag, that would mean betraying a friend that would mean –

I am a good person, a very good person, a very very very good person –

THAT BAG IS PRACTICALLY WORTH MORE THAN MY CAR

Think of Africa, think of poor places, think of all those poor people –

I AM SO IGNORANT I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT COUNTRIES ARE POOR –

Amber? Are you ok? You look like you’re about to vomit? Either that or you’re holding in a particularly large fart –

I am fine, I am wonderful I am fine –

I WISH MY PARENTS WERE RICH

I am a good person, I am a very very good person, I have two arms, two legs, twos eyes two ears a nose, a mouth, I am lucky lucky lucky lucky I am –

IS IT WRONG THAT I ACTUALLY WANT TO DO A SHIT IN YOUR BAG?!

Amber? What do you think? Do you like it?!

OH GOD THE HOURS ARE LONG AND THE NIGHTS ARE LONGER AND ALL I WANT IS A NEW PAIR OF GLASSES –

Sell it, sell it, sell it, WE’RE ONLY ANIMALS AFTER ALL AND SURVIVAL IS ALWAYS THE KEY - sell the bag, buy a new coat, THROW IT IN THE FIRE burn the precious leather, GET A NEW JOB, win the fucking lottery, fake your own death, set your house alight and use the insurance money and buy a bag that you can actually PUT PENS IN, I LOVE CARRYING PENS IN MY BAG BUT I CAN’T AFFORD THE MOTHER-FUCKING PENS!

…………………………………And then there is the friend that is simply always so lovely!

Yes! She can cook, clean, make her own hair bands (all the great things that make women GREAT) and next thing you know she is baking everyone cakes!

Cakes cakes cakes ‘mmmmm’ – just look at the way the sugar coats her pretty little lips, (and there you are, dribbling chocolate down your front and pretending you hate them whilst in reality you are trying to secretly smuggle another into your REALLY CHEAP HANDBAG –

IT’S NOT AS IF YOU NEED ANOTHER! SHE’S EATEN 4 AND SHE’S STILL A SIZE EIGHT!

Vomit!? Vomit?! Surely she must be self-inducing?!

No! Don’t do it! You don’t want to smell!

AT LEAST YOU’RE NOT PRETENDING TO BE A FUCKING HOUSEWIFE!

(Choking and spluttering),

 “I think they’re a little dry love”

(DON’T SAY IT DON’T SAY IT, YOU DON’T WANT TO BE THE JEALOUS BITCH)

(Holding breath to encourage watering eyes)

 “DID YOU PUT NUTS IN THESE YOU SHOULD KNOW I’M ALLERGIC!”

(OH WHY DID YOU SAY IT, WHY DID YOU SAY IT?!)

Random friend – “no you’re not.”

(THEY’VE GOT YOU, THEY’VE GOT YOU, OWN UP, OWN UP!)

“Yes I am, CHRIST I’M DYING!”

Silence.

You continue chewing and swallow successfully.

                Random friend –“No. No…. You’re definitely not.”

(The silence continues.)

“ANYONE FOR A GAME OF PING-PONG?!”

  And you can see it happening well into adult-hood, your mother standing at the curtains watching the neighbours wheel in their new television and their smashingly expensive leather sofas, muttering under her breath ‘and I deserved that promotion….’

You used to think your mother wanted you to do well at school because she cared, but now you are older you witness it first hand –

  “Your child got 10 on a maths test, mine got four. Ok, maybe it is down to a bad gene pool and unhealthy upbringing. Or maybe your child is just BORING AS SHIT and my kid has a good enough sense of humour at aged nine to realise that Mr James is a blithering idiot who remains a virgin and wanks over his MAC BOOK PRO

IT’S JUST A COMPUTER!

YOU’RE SUCH A KNOB!!!!

It’s ok though. Stay strong. Play to your strengths. Strive to succeed. One day you’ll buy that bag, and you will fill it with pens - and lipstick, and tissues! - and you will take it all the way to SOME POOR COUNTRY YOU ARE TOO IGNORANT TO KNOW THE NAME OF, and you will say – ‘yes, run little child, now you have the means to gather your FOOD and hoard the crumbs and keep dead animals inside the confines of this expensive leather, because apparently it is so expensive it simply must be made to the MOST HIGHEST OF QUALITY to suit ALL OF YOUR NEEDS.

'Wasting Time in the Workplace' - a first hand account of newly established hobbies!

      Wasting time in the workplace.

Yes.

     You finally did it.

You landed that dream job – no, I don’t actually mean the job of your dreams, like the TV presenter, or the celebrity columnist, or the ice cream man (some of us aimed relatively low and still didn’t manage to achieve,) I mean the fact that having a job full stop has now become the dream. And you, my darling, have entered the nightmare!

 Hell yes to becoming a waitress for the first time since 3 years ago when it was just your Saturday job to earn some pocket money. Hell yes to recruitment because that was clearly what you had in mind when you did your geography degree. Hell yes to sales because during the recession it is apparently obvious that everybody is in need of being convinced to buy stuff.

We are earning ourselves some well deserved money!!!!! We are going to work, coming back, and sleeping like our very own parents! No time to socialise, oh no, after that hard days work all we want to do is fall asleep! Ah, how rewarding. How rewarding. How good it feels to have a purpose, how absolutely wonderful to know that –

     

Shit man. I just spent three years studying writing and nobody wants a writer.

It’s ok. Let it go. Let it go.

Shit man. They’re already asking me to pay back my student loan?!

It’s ok. Let it go. You’re not earning enough yet –

Shit man I’m not earning enough yet!?!!!!!???? IS THREE JOBS NOT ENOUGH?!?!?

Everybody keeps asking me what I want to do for my ‘proper job’? When am I going to get my ‘proper job’?

     What the fuck? Did they go to school?! Do they understand the word ‘proper?’ Don’t even worry about it. I studied writing for three years, I know my words, don’t even worry about it.

(I’m not worrying. Who’s worrying?! I’m not worrying. Are you worrying?)

I am enjoying being a food and beverage assistant. Apparently the job description of ‘Food and Beverage Assistant’ means I merely spend my time doing ‘improper acts’ such as skipping down the road singing songs and acting merry. (Oh  no, my mistake, that was the term ‘Drama Degree’ now I’m getting confused, obviously, because I was only a ‘drama and writing student’ so clearly I haven’t really got a thought capacity.) Apparently the job description of ‘Food and Beverage Assistant’ means I am just going out for a party? Perhaps it means I am only kidding with them. Mucking around. Pulling their legs. Wasting some time. Nah, I’m not going to work really. I’m going to pull pints behind the bar and carry plates and serve tea and it’s just a little game I love to play!  

  Jeez. Let me at least get paid my first pay check. Then I’ll let everyone know when I can afford to go  out and hunt for my ‘proper job’, because I don’t know if you’ve noticed yet, petrol costs money?! AND THEY WANT ME TO REPAY MY STUDENT LOAN?!

So anyway, lately I have been talking to ‘Best-Friend-On-The-Floor’ from an earlier job, to find out how she is finding it in her recruitment role. Yes. Her ‘PROPER JOB.’ And by comparison, it sounds like my job is fairly similar to hers, considering she is working in this area that I have not quite yet managed to establish.’

For example, we both seem to have been actively engaged in several new hobbies.

                               

New found hobbies of the working woman:

-          Hobby number one. The be all and end all of work, the primary concern and always the first port of call, before during and after, partaking in a work activity:  Clock watching.

You now check your watch more than you check your make-up. In fact, more than you check your facebook. In fact, more than you check your phone. To be honest, you are checking your watch more than you blink. It goes: a-look- a-blink, a-look-a-blink, a-look-a-blink, ONLY FIVE SECONDS HAVE PASSED WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!

-          Fake phone calls. “Hi there, my name is ‘Best-Friend-On-The-Floor’ I am calling to find out if you are interested in….

(No reply. Naturally the dial tone is still humming ominously in background. It’s like a baby’s lullaby of safety. Shit. Say something.)

Oh you are! Wonderful! So tell me a little bit about yourself….

(Silence)

Mmmmm. Yesss. I seeeee. Wonderful, oh lovely. Sounds good! Yes, yes. Mmmm. Nodding. Shit, the boss is looking. I see! Check watch. Shit, did he see me check my watch? How long have I been on the phone? Oh God, I haven’t said anything for a while, have they sussed me?! No, no surely not!

Ok, thanks that’s wonderful Mrs Clark, I’ll be looking forward to hearing from your company shortly.

(Hangs up. Looks at boss flabbergasted.) Well! She was eager! Would not stop gibbering to me! That’s what I love about this job. You do get to chat to some characters, don’t you!?

(Proceed to clock watch. Immediately regret the decision as you realise there is still an hour to go before lunch. And every ten minutes feels like a freeze-frame.)

-          Checking nails whilst holding the phone (switched off) to the ear. Your boss looks up – ‘on hold’ you mouth, and roll your eyes, in a way like your grandmother would if your granddad said he couldn’t eat all his dinner.

-          Frequent intake of water resulting in frequent use of the toilet. Every half an hour, on the hour/half hour, without fail. “It’s bad to hold it in, that’s what my mother always said.” Nobody has noticed yet. Seriously though?!

-          Smoking. Fuck it. It pains me to admit it, but there are a fair few post-grads who’d rather die early and actually have a break than drag out the extra life time sat behind the desk doing fuck all. Let’s. Just. Have. A. Fag. And five extra minutes to watch the passing cars and imagine a life lived out on the road. Ah. Now look who’s jealous of the gypsies.

-          The practising of verbal diarrhoea. The growth of a brain separate to the one in your head. It now grows somewhere in your tongue, and ventures out only when you realise you are in a fight or flight situation – aka, asking for time off, calling in sick, hungover as fuck, going through a twenty-four-hour-breakdown, yes, you have one at least once a month and that is exactly when the defensive brain capable of verbal diarrhoea comes to your loyal rescue.

Examples are as follows: (all courtesy of Best-Friend-On-The Floor, yes that’s right, the best friend who had a one night stand twice in one night. A two night stand? Don’t worry. She was stressed from work. It’s a tough environment out there. Chuckle. She’s forgiven)

(Talking very quickly as though there is not enough oxygen in the air)“My grandmother in Scotland is really ill and I need to go and visit her before she dies.” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I am a bad person. A very, very bad person. I am a bad, bad, bad… now what was I doing, oh yes of course! It’s Thursday night. Let’s go get pissed and forget our own names.

The casual death bed scenario. Always makes an appearance used by those most heartless. Or perhaps most desperate. Stress does strange things to you.

Hammered from the night before. Oh I’d better check my diary: oh would you look at that! I have a dentist appointment! Standard. Two hours late. Beer sweats. Manager then has to also take himself home. It’s every man for himself. Must be food poisoning. Oh fuck off. Each and every person in the office smells of vodka. Why not embrace it?!

Best-friend-on-the-floor (whilst at work) gets a text. Yes. That two night stand may have given her an STI. Fuck. What the fuck?! Proceed to toilet and initiate tights down leg up approach. Where’s her compact mirror? Fuck, is that a genital wart? If only she could see… calm down, calm down…. Oh no. What if it’s herpes.?! FOR LIFE?! Fuck fuck fuck, don’t cry don’t cry –

Enter office. Approach boss. Nearly crying.

“I’ve just had a phone call from the doctors.”

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck?

“They said I need to go in urgently.”

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck?

“They say my blood test results have come through and I need to talk with them immediately.”

What blood test?

Leave work. Get in car. Avoid doctors and detour straight to the STI clinic.

“No love. You’ve got an ingrowing hair. Go and get yourself back to work.”

Nah. May as well go to the pub. Need a pint after all that.

I really don’t know how to end this blog. All in all, I feel, (in some very far distant way) it is a summary of mixed emotions. And I am quite happy with this analogy, similarly as I am content partaking in my several part time jobs.