My word you’re made of strong stuff! You’ve come back to read more about my scintillating year? Well, I don’t blame you. There’s bugger all on the telly and it’s too bloody windy to go for a walk…
So, where were we?
April-July: things were trundling along nicely, I ate my body weight in chocolate having discovered the joys of Hotel Chocolat on a shopping trip with a friend. I indulged the family with eye-wateringly expensive Easter eggs from said chocolatier – I might as well have gone to the pound shop for all the notice they took – Philistines!
Work was going really well, I don’t think I’d ever loved a job as much. There was a meeting in May where the head stated that the school was in a terrible financial situation and jobs might have to go. I wasn’t unduly worried, I mean I’d only been in the job 6 months,yes, but there was no one else to do the work I did, I was crazy busy all the time and obviously they wouldn’t have taken me on if they knew…yada, yada, yada….I almost convinced myself until the slimy-looking incompetent who’d let the place get into such a situation came into my office with a letter and “heartfelt” apologies. That was at 11am. By 2pm I was in a meeting with the slimy-looking incompetent who was telling me it was a fait accompli. I was being binned on 31 Dec and there was nothing I could do about it. I resisted the urge to karate chop him in his ridiculously protruding Adam’s Apple or to knock his ugly head off his idiotically long neck and behaved with dignity and decorum for once in my life. But inside I was a weeping, wailing mess. I wanted to lay on the floor in the foetal position and have someone stroke my hair. But I smiled and carried on because that’s what you do isn’t it. You get punched in the stomach and for good measure someone grabs your heart and has a kick about with it but you carry on…..don’t you?
Doing my weekly shop at the supermarket is never going to make it into my Top Ten Cool Things To Do on a Sunday list.
Oh no, it’s up there on my God I Really Hate Having To Do This list – along with cleaning my car and breathing the same air as Katie Price.
It’s never pleasant but today’s experience surpassed the usual humdrum drudgery.
I thought I’d liven up my life a little, live in the fast lane y’know, so I opted to go to Morrisons instead of Tescos – wake up reader, it gets better I promise.
I got all my usual gubbins, did my usual trick of picking up six ready meals before suffering Mother’s Guilt and putting them back and buying vegetables instead, laughed at the label declaring
- Buy 2 for £1.50!! Usual Price 70p
As I reached the checkout I had a little frisson of excitement when I realised there was no queue (yes, I know I should get a life, I’m working on it ok?) but my soul plummeted when I saw the mass of seething resentment and apathy sat glaring at me from the till.
“Are you open?” I asked in a friendly voice with a smile.
“Yeh” replied the Checkout Girl of the Year with so much malice you’d have thought I’d insulted her mother or kicked her cat – or vice versa.
I loaded my goods onto the belt while Atilla the Glum sat and filed her nails (yes,really).
Did she start sending my items through and [gasp] pack them whilst I was still loading them on? Did she ask me if I’d like any help? Did she buggery. The lazy little witch was determined that every single item was going to be on that belt before a single manicured finger of hers was going to pick up and start doing what she is paid to do.
She then proceeded to sling the items at me with more speed than her slovenly demeanour looked capable of. Just one problem, no bags….
I politely asked for some carrier bags and she threw two at me, even though she’d just watched me load a full trolley onto the belt.
Do the supermarkets send their checkout operators on a Greenpeace training course? Because I swear nowadays they think they are the guardians of our planet and polar bears the world over are going to tell their cubs all about how this trusty band saved them from global warming.
“I’ll need more than that,” said I through gritted teeth whereupon Damienne insolently threw about 15 more at me.
Obviously she didn’t ask if I wanted help to pack – not that I wanted her to, she looked the kind of slattern who would put tins in the same bag as bread rolls. She also tutted when I was trying to find the right card to pay with. Being the mother of a pre-teen boy, I don’t even have to leave the house to get that kind of treatment, let alone have to pay for the privilege!
Yes, I handed over £86.20 to her employers, which I would rather have spent on shoes, who will then pay her. For what? Hating her job? For being rude and disrespectful?
Why do we put up with this? It’s ridiculous but we do! Rather than cause a fuss we gamely go against all of our instincts and keep that upper lip stiff. We are a nation of enablers, we enable these snotty teenage no marks to treat us with scorn because they think they are worth more than a job on a supermarket checkout! If you don’t like it, luv, either don’t bloody do it or pretend to like it as the rest of do day in day out. It’s called life!
So I walked away seething quietly – at least I resisted the urge to send her to her room!