Thursday, 31 December 2009

Returning the screw.

I had work again today but unfortunately there were no fun people, just a couple of rude ones. I won't leave you disappointed though. Or maybe I will. Here is a brief account of all the times I have been genuinely afraid.

1. When I worked in the shop in Cardiff, I worked with an adorable little lady who was quite short and on the whole the type you'd like to put in your bag, or your mouth, or whatever. A very rude man once fully threatened to put her through the window.

2. In Cardiff a man came in and he was very clearly on some form of exotic drug, I suspected heroin. He took a bite out of one of the bath ballistics (which taste disgusting and aren't worth breaking your teeth over) and then said he wanted to buy his mum a little gift. We had to con him into paying for the ballistic he had eaten but thankfully he was too out of it to notice. Drugs are bad.

3. Last christmas, or maybe the one before that, I had nipped in to work on my way home from college (so what if that's my social life, fuck you) and I had noticed some freaky looking people. By freaky I mean suspicious, not horrendously ugly or anything. I followed them out of the shop and the little blighters had tried to nick about £100's worth of stuff! I had a blazing argument in the street and I'm telling you now, they were the type that would've stabbed you and pissed in the wound. Scallywags. My manager followed me out eventually and we ended up getting everything back. It's a shame, they looked like they needed a wash.

4. That same christmas, the rudest woman in the whole world came in and I had to do a gift wrap for her. She kept tutting and fiddling with it, often taking it off me entirely to do it herself. Then she complained about me to my manager. I wasn't scared but I was genuinely terrified for her safety.

5. When I used to work in Vans a man was a complete asshole to me. I was 16 at the time and he was 40something and 6ft. He threatened to beat me up. What a loser.

That's all! I don't get that scared. I'm a tough old bird, me. I'll write something when I'm not feeling so dumb.

Tuesday, 29 December 2009


I'm sick of reading the shit I write on here. It's boring, whiney irritating horseshit. Boohoohoo, I can't get laid. I'm sick of trying to impress guys and I'm sick of being a negi nigel. I was in work today and I had a good idea, or at least what I thought was one. A couple of fruity people came into the shop and made me chuckle and it reminded me of all the good times I've had speaking to people who are a little more than a sandwich short of a picnic. It would seem all the bright colours attract all those wonderful people who are a little cracked to say the least. I think the smell does it too. I would like to dedicate this blog to all the fruity, loopy, mental, cracked and generally special people I meet in work. It'll have a more lighthearted tone than the crap I usually put on here and I've bought myself a nice new notebook to scribble all my little thoughts into so you needn't worry about my personal life.

Today, I was cheerily singing to myself (I was allowed to play my iPod for the first time in a long time! I think it was Defiance, Ohio) as a curious old fellow on crutches hobbled on in. I couldn't see a visible impairment and his crutches had red and white stripey tape down them, reminding me a little of those adorable little candy canes you get at christmas that always break my fucking teeth, and made me think that he was probably having a jolly old time even if he had a pair of clubfeet (is that even a plural?). He launched himself straight into my personal space with such enthusiasm that I thought he might've wanted a cuddle, which I wasn't about to participate in because he had a runny nose. He said something in a really high pitched crazy accent about the smell of the shop and he seemed to be completely in awe of everything around him so I gave him a polite little smile. He asked if it was soap and I said yes, because I didn't want to explain to him the difference between soap, facial soap, shower gel, shower jelly, haircare, skincare, bath ballistics, bath melts, and so on, etc. Also, I think in the time it would've taken to relay this useless information he might have tried to put his finger up my butt. I picked up my favourite soap and handed it over for him to smell. I was hoping he wouldn't let his nose run all over it and it reminded me of the time a drunk guy stumbled in at about 10 in the morning when I was working on my own and he had dribbled all over a bunch of soaps. Anyway, he was really into it, probably because I've got really good taste, and he insisted I told him how much it cost. I weighed it and informed him it would be £3.84. He wanted to buy it but he seemed overly keen and it made me think that if I had suggested he needed a £100 hatbox for his mother, sister and girlfriend(?) he would've bought them each one without a complaint. I hate working in sales as it is without feeling personally responsible for exploiting people who can't stop themselves from spending money on shit they don't need (I don't think he smelled particularly bad). My conscience ended the transaction short and he stared at me a little while before leaving. He was happy though, and I like people like that. I'd much sooner be a bit mental than a total dick.

Later on today a woman came in with what she claimed to be a gift that her son had bought her for christmas. She was angling for a refund which I'm not allowed to do (I'm too dumb, or something) but I was a little pissed that someone would even try to return something their child had kindly and selflessly bought them (she wasn't that old and I like to think her son was about 8) so I gave her a grilling before getting my supervisor. She said first of all, she didn't know what was in it. So I told her in great detail. Then she said she couldn't use anything with a fragrance because it brought her out in hives. She said she used Simple. My colleague that hilariously suffers from what some might describe as anger problems was doing her best to bite her tongue, if there's one thing that grips our shit it's people telling us they have sensitive skin and they can only use X brand, a brand which uses nothing but chemicals and by-products of the petrol industry (paraffin, anyone?). I did my best to tell her that I had sensitive skin and that all of our products are made from natural clays, fruit and vegetables and essential oils without using the phrase 'dumb cunt' but she wasn't having any of it. She said she couldn't use bath ballistics. Then she decided that she had used that very bath ballistic that was in the gift even though 10 minutes ago she hadn't the foggiest what was in this mystery box. Apparently it gave her hives. I asked if she wanted to exchange it and she said no, she'd like a refund so she could buy Simple. I got my supervisor, warning her that this lady was a dumb cunt who'd rub shit in her eyes if the tele told her to. I like to think I was very polite, considering what I wanted to say was something along the lines of 'I'll do you a refund, sure, now take your fucking money, go and buy that fucking dogshit and put it on your stupid face. I hope you get hives and your tongue swells up until you choke to death you moronic, ungrateful fucking dicksucker. Now fuck off.'