My employment history is pretty much a disgrace. The common thread running between the brief stints of loathing and plotting of revolt I have been paid to contribute to various establishments over the years is that most of them cottoned on pretty quickly to what a distinctly awful choice had been made - or I could take it no more - and the whole sorry agreement was kicked to the curb (cue drinking and reassertion of my euphoric unemployment status).
The speediest example of this process was my regrettable employment by Spar. Now I don't even know if Spar are still going or have been engulfed by the advancing rash of Tesco Express', but back in 1996 I needed fast cash to buy awful, tyre-laden hash and the foolhardy manager at Spar believed me when I said I'd make 'an excellent addition to her team'. Pity the fool.
One Sunday I was idly plotting revolt and scribbling away the hours as I 'manned' the till, writing a letter to my best friend Ruth about a boy who had just been in to visit. The letter was peppered with casual insults about my bitter and decrepit co-workers and denigrated the company in general, contrasting its impotence with my greatness and absolute zero potential to give a fuck about what happened to it or any of its contents.
My shift grindingly finished and real time commenced as I skipped out the door to spend my wages on terrible hash and strongbow. A few days later, my boss called me in for 'a chat'. I experienced a smidgen of the sense of foreboding felt by a shoplifter who is just about to be caught or the sinking feeling you get when you realise the person you've been shouting about is actually behind you.
As I walked into the office I saw the dried up old she-demon was holding what looked like a photocopy of my letter. 'Is this your writing?' Not waiting for an answer she pushed on: 'I had to read this to the area manager THREE TIMES'. Steam was rising, I could smell sulpher. 'He just couldn't believe it was written by an employee of ours' she spat as I hovered by the door.
Turns out I'd penned my letter whilst leaning on the credit card notes, forever immortalizing it about 500 times onto the waiting sheets below... Everything happens for a reason.
I wish I'd had the courage to tell her to get fucked after she'd thoroughly digested the contents of my wittily scribed note but I said nothing. 'GET OUT.' She screamed 'And NEVER come back'.
Easier said than done when your town has one shop. 12 years on and she still recognizes me as I skulkingly pop in each Christmas to pick up my gran's Daily Mail, my parent's Observer. She still knows who I am. And when I'm there I'm a guilty 16 year old all over again.
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