Confused is an excellent crew mate Bez. Only trouble is she would have you docking in every port for fish and chips and cream teas......actually that is no trouble because she somehow sniffs out the best on offer!
Are you coming, Confused, as you seem to be so idle atm?
is that an invite then?
*packs waterproofs, tea flask and snack bars*
(daisy is not wrong about the snacking, but i'm not even a good foodie. i'm a bad foodie. i'm super fussy, have so many foods that disagree with me -anything with flavour basically- i'm tee total too. not the best eating companion lol)
Post by thesentientpasty on Jan 15, 2019 23:06:44 GMT
Most interesting timing, LD. For tonight, this very evening, as unpacking my locker and checking up on Teresa May's final days at 8.30, I saw my manager walk past. "Lisa,", I cried, "can I ask a question?"
All eyes turned.
"When are you going to sack me?"
She laughed. "Probably January 26th. We have no money or hours to keep you ... But."
My smile went.
"We could sort 'something' out. Maybe fewer hours? Starting in a fortnight?"
Now, M&S is shedding stores. Desperate times. Do I fancy a 12 or 16 hour contract?
Post by thesentientpasty on Feb 9, 2019 22:47:26 GMT
The short, chubby man stopped at the till. His short, chubby arms made it somewhat difficult to load the items into his two vast bags, so I helpfully held the items up for easy grabbing, as I scanned them by.
He laughed at the sound of the Restricted Items beep as his wine was scanned. 'Sounds like the police are after me!' I smiled and pointed out the weird sides of the alarm - how it went off for energy drinks, Christmas crackers, nurofen, pizza cutters and the rest of it. We chatted.
We Were Getting Along Just Fine.
At the end I asked him for his Sparks card.
'I don't have it on me.'
'That's fine,' I said, 'if you keep the receipt we can add the points on next time.'
Going Well, Here.
'I have a voucher.' he said.
Now vouchers are ubiquitous in the store. Virtually everyone has one, gets one and uses them.
HIS voucher is a crumpled piece of paper for five pounds off. This never includes alcohol, but he's ok, he's spent over the minimum on non-alcohol and is virtually guaranteed to get the discount.
I scan the voucher.
'NO' says the till.
I look at the voucher, and read the teeny-weeny small print.
'Oh, I'm sorry,' I say, 'this voucher is only applicable with a Sparks Card.'
'Then', says he, without a moments' pause, 'I don't want the fucking shopping.'
And with this, he turns over both bags, spraying the contents all over the bagging area, and storms out.
I look left - a jumbled pile of shopping shit all over the place. I look right - two customers in the queue looking aghast.
'Sorry,' I say, 'give me a moment and we'll be back to normal.'
I swear I am going to find that customer, find his workplace, and just shit on his desk.
The rude tosser. What the fuck is the fucking point?
Post by thesentientpasty on Feb 9, 2019 22:55:45 GMT
Half an hour later.
I'm on self-scans. I pluck empty baskets and put them in the wheeled basket-holding thingmy. This, btw, is a great way to stop people walking out without paying. They've scanned everything, and then YOU turn up, saying little more than 'thank you', and if you're a bad 'un, they then realise you're watching, and if they're honest they think 'that's nice. Wouldn't get that in Aldi...'
So I pluck the basket from Old Woman #1, who's just finished scanning.
'YOU,' she accuses me, 'have just PUT ME OFF. I am flustered now. FLUSTERED!'
My head: 'pay for the shit and just feck off'. My heart: 'pay for the shit and just feck off'. My mouth: 'Sorry.' (Not sorry)
Post by thesentientpasty on Mar 11, 2019 22:08:12 GMT
So, Friday came and went. It's tremendously odd going back to work for a company who officially sacked you three weeks ago. Everyone delighted to see me. I know all the processes and routines, so it was instant 'hands to the pumps' stuff.
Towards the end of the shift, I got new information. That Sunday shift? "Can you do six hours instead of four?"
Yes, I thought, as I have Monday and Tuesday off.
This morning, the phone rings. "We've got NOBODY. Can you come in today?"
I arrive to find six staff off sick. I suspect I know what they're sick of.
"Here's your newly revised rota for the week!"
My twelve hour, three-day contract has transmogrified, in week #1, to 38 hours and one day off.
Post by thesentientpasty on Mar 11, 2019 22:11:23 GMT
...but before you throw up your hands in horror (or just throw up, I guess) I am currently dining on some vegan butternut squash pies purchased at one-third the retail price. And they are rather good. #benefits
Post by thesentientpasty on Mar 26, 2019 22:55:22 GMT
Week - uh? - is it three? I've had my day off, this week. It was yesterday. I'm doing 38 hours over six days, otherwise. On my 12-hour contract.
News today was that my 'six week job' has become 'eight weeks'. "And will you do ANY hours for us, 'cos we're desperate?"
Well, if it doesn't interrupt my all-important sailing time, you can always ask...
This is a bizarre situation. I feel vaguely zero-hoursy, you know, at the beck and call, and liable to be dumped at any moment; while I also feel extremely empowered. Able to say shove it. Which, in terms of worker's rights, is the bestest situation to be in, of all.
Post by thesentientpasty on Apr 13, 2019 9:57:31 GMT
The Elderly Couple turned up with a mini-mountain of shopping.
I scanned, they packed. Everything was going like clockwork. We chatted, mentioned the store's temperature (it's always cold, but I've got used to it). And then the finale: last item safely stashed away, she fishes out her Sparks card. I scan it, and tell them the cost of their shopping - that traditional prompt which means "and this is the very moment where you cough up". It's £27.95.
Only, she's not got her bank card. A moment's fluster. He, however, has a new bank card, which is drawn out of his wallet.
"I'll get it," he says, followed by "Oo! Can I tap it?"
I say, "Of course!" (We've got every technology to take your money away.)
"I've never done this before!"
Now, he's at least seventy, and as giddy as a schoolboy at the prospect of a contactless payment. The store is not busy. Apart from the relentless rumble of chillers, it's quiet. And, almost in slow-motion, he lifts the card and brings it reverentially down onto the card reader. Precisely at the same time a colleague on another till rings the little silver bell for assistance with something. The clear, sharp 'ting' echoes around the store.
He and his wife start a little in surprise at this, and I immediately say, with shockingly awesome comic-timing, "That won't happen every time you do that."