CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
"Is the package for yourself?", the counter assistant asked. This was the stupidest question I'd heard all day.
Two days earlier, a card had arrived through the front door while I was at work. A package, for Mrs Blackout, was awaiting collection at the Post Office. Now, this was unusual, because normally they hold them at the sorting office, not an actual branch. The more I thought about it, this made more sense as the Post Office itself has opening hours longer than that of the sorting office. 'That's fine', I said, 'I'll pick it up on my way home on Friday'.
Friday arrives, my early-finish arrives shortly after that, and by 1pm I'm walking through town, in the rain, towards the Post Office. Not the nearest one to my house, and not a one which is actually on my way home (ie, I've already walked past a) the sorting office, and b) the nearest Post Office by the time I get there), but the one which is holding the package. I'll say now, by the way, that the item in question is two packs of replacement bags for the vacuum cleaner. Exciting, I know, but it sort of leads into what comes later.
So I arrive at the Post Office. I reach into my bag and pull out the card which has been left at my house, and also a bank statement as proof of my address, as required by that card (because if I'd broken or tricked my way into someone's house to steal this precious delivery-card, there's no way I could also have stolen something else with the same address on it). I inform the counter assistant that I have a package to pick up, and slide the card under the glass partition. She looks at the card (for far too long, in my opinion), looks vaguely around the paper-strewn desks behind her, and reaches for the package. It's about 10"x5"x3", and I can see by the way it moves that it contains two boxes inside a plastic 'courier bag' type thing.
The counter assistant looks at the name and address on the card. She looks at the name and address on the package. She looks at the name and address on the card. "Do you have any ID?" she asks. "Yeah…", I reply, and hold up the bank statement at the glass. She gestures for me to pass it under the partition. Clearly she can't be expected to read a name and address from almost two feet away through a sheet of toughened safety-glass, and there's no way she can lean closer, so I comply and pass her the envelope.
The counter assistant looks at the name and address on the envelope. She looks at the name and address on the package. She looks at the name and address on the envelope. She doesn't look back at the card, which I find odd. Surely a triple-sequential-check is better than a double? Or has she just remembered that the name and address on the card and the one on the package are the same? Let's hope so. Studying the two items with a frown on her face, she almost seems unable to come to terms with the fact that the only common feature they share is the address and postcode. I have no problem at all with the fastidious nature of this transaction. She's doing her job, and she's doing it well, ensuring that the packages which leave her particular counter only go to the correct recipients. I respect that, and appreciate that it takes a little longer to do something properly. It's the next question which tips the balance. She raises her head from her studies to address me…
"Is the package for yourself?", she asks. There are three answers to this question.
1) Yes. Yes, it's for me. That's why the name on the envelope is different to the one on the package, obviously. You see, I'm currently undergoing a course of online-retail-based gender reassignment operations, and the sender of that there box has already begun to use my new name "Ms Collins", while the fuddy-duddy squares at my bank seem hellbent on calling me "Mr Paterson" until the procedure is complete. I know, I know, crazy, isn't it? Yes, I don't look remotely female, in either physicality or dress, but it's early days. Those are my new breasts in the package you're holding, one in each box. No, I'm not kidding, why would I? What's that? Gender reassignment still wouldn't account for the surname being different, even if the prefix to the name was? Fuck, you're right. Erm… right, Yes. Yes, the package is for me. I have a multiple personality disorder, and "Ms Collins" bought some hoover-bags online the other night, but as I can't control when she manifests in my psyche, it's good ol' "Mr Paterson" who's here to collect them. That said, "Mr Paterson" could just be another pseudonym that I've fooled the bank into believing. Of course, the bank weren't as Marple-like as yourself, good lady, and you've seen right to the bottom of my ruse. The truth is, I have no clue who I REALLY am. DAMN YOU, woman. Damn you.
2) Well, as you've studied the two items in your sweaty hands for over a minute now, what the fuck do you think? Notwithstanding answer number one, do I LOOK like "Ms Collins" to you? That's who the package is addressed to, isn't it? So that's who it's FOR, isn't it? So what the fuck kind of question was that? The answer's CLEARLY going to be NO, but since I have access to the mail of the occupants of this address, including the missed-delivery card of one and the bank statement of another, I'd say that me picking up their hoover-bags is pretty much THE FUCKING LEAST OF THEIR WORRIES, wouldn't you?
3) No, it's for my partner.
I answer with number three. It seems easiest, if I'm being honest. She considers my answer for a further 10 seconds before pointing wordlessly at the side window and sliding my package through the hatch, with my bank statement atop. She doesn't say anything more, so neither do I.
Package collected, lesson learned.
And while I'm on, I do recommend you use brand/model specific bags for your vacuum cleaner. The generic ones are passable in the short-term, but the difference in pickup with the correct bag is quite remarkable.
So y'know. Every cloud…
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
"Always be polite. Until it's time not to be polite."
I get on the train at London Paddington. About 45 minutes down the line is Didcot, where I live. I get a seat to myself (by which I mean there was no-one in the seat next to mine), get out the laptop and begin to watch the final half hour of The Dark Knight, having watched it up to that point on the train into London from Ramsgate.
About ten minutes before the train leaves, a woman gets on with three children of varying ages, a pushchair and lots of bags. She and her youngest child (who, incidentally, it way too old for the pushchair) sit directly behind my seat, while the other two and their assorted luggage sprawl across the opposite side of the carriage, so that they can talk on the journey.
Well, I say talk, I mean the children will laugh, shout, yelp, shout, babble and shout the moment they park their arses. I'll be honest, that wasn't the problem. It wasn't the designated quiet carriage, and the children weren't being obnoxious or abusive. They were just loud. Fucking overbearingly loud. But hey, I've got my headphones on and Batman's knocking seven shades of shit out of the Joker; What's it to me? If the noise level is bothering any other passengers, I'm sure they'll say something.
Then it starts. The youngest child, not content with screaming across the four or five feet to his siblings decides that his conversation needs more percussion, and starts booting the chair in front of him. The one I'm sitting in. With the first couple of kicks, I figure that he's just squirming around in his seat (after all, his mouth can't keep still, why should the rest of his body follow suit?) and he'll calm down in a moment. And calm down he does. After about a minute of constant booting. I glance round but manage to make no eye-contact with any of the party.
Fuck it, he's stopped. I'll say nothing.
Then about five minutes later it starts again. A mid-paced rhythmic distraction across the lower half of my torso to accompany the background shrieks. Not constant enough to be unbearable, but certainly not infrequent enough to be accidental. The mother of the children isn't ignoring them by the way, I can hear her talking to them, but she isn't trying to get them to quieten down at all. Can I assume that she's so preoccupied by the sheer volume of her offspring that she doesn't notice her youngest child's legs beating away at the seat in front of him? Essentially, the seat in front of her?
It's not constant, it's sporadic. I'm only on the train for 45 minutes, I'll say nothing.
This continues until Reading, where a man gets on the train, asks if the seat next to me is free, then sits and gets his own laptop out. The kicking starts again. He's listening to music on his laptop, and this will bother him way more than it bothers me. He looks around at the errant child and its careless guardian. Seeing the look on his face both before and after the glance, I figure he's came to the same conclusion as me. He says nothing.
We're at Didcot now. I pack away my things and leave the train. I'm not going to say anything on the way off, there isn't time.
And that's my journey. Home 10 minutes later, done and dusted. I don't know how far The Noisy Family were travelling, and I don't know if anyone asked them to keep it down once the train left Didcot Parkway. I said nothing. I know people who would have had a word, and I know people who wouldn't. Most of the ones who'd interject would have asked calmly and politely if the kid(s) could show a little more consideration for other passengers. Most of the ones who'd leave it wouldn't want to make a scene or just wouldn't let it bother them.
I don't care about making a scene, but there are two reasons why I said nothing:
1) Although she wasn't being gobby and obnoxious, one look at the mother's mannerisms suggested that she'd be a fucking nightmare if anyone dared suggest that perhaps her parenting skills weren't all they could be. And since I'd have to spend the rest of the journey on the same train (and more than likely have to lug my two heavy bags elsewhere should the situation escalate, walking past her to do so), it wasn't worth the grief, frankly.
And, more pertinently...
2) If this woman hasn't taught her kids to shut the fuck up and not continually kick anything within range by this point in their lives, it's hard to believe that the reasoning, concerned parent is about to appear now. Yeah, the kids weren't being abusive per se, but that was largely because they were in a 'good' mood. I bet they're a pain in the fucking arse when they're stroppy (as is their mother), and I'm not going to be the one to test that theory. This disregard for other people and property will come back to bite her in the arse when the kids are a bit older and she can't control them when she wants to. Why the fuck should I get involved? It's not my job to raise your kids, you lazy fuck. I can put up with this inconvenience; it's temporary. However, karma has rewarded your laziness with years of inconsiderate behaviour and solid unabating noise. Good luck for the future, I'm glad you don't live in Didcot.
And in case you're thinking "Now, now: Judge not lest ye be judged!", go ahead and judge me: I'm the guy keeping to himself without bags all over the seats, trying to watch a movie in peace and inconveniencing no-one. What of it?
That's why I said nothing. The journey wasn't long enough.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
I thought I was going to be a bastard this morning. That bastard I mentioned there, who swans into the Spar at 07:55, paying for a token low-end purchase with a note, purely to get change to use elsewhere. Instead, I realised that I'm actually part of the aristocracy.
I needed change, and only had a £10 note. It's not absolute bastard level behaviour, but having worked in retail I know how annoying it is (yes, I am empathetic, despite what you may have thought after reading last week's post. Or this week's post).
So, to avoid some sort of remake of last week's performance, (which I was sure would lead to me unleashing my full pedantic fury, should it happen again) I'd checked that my £10 was legal, UK tender. All good. This currency in my hand was worth exactly one hundred times that coin, which had caused umbrage seven days ago, and I had every legal and moral right to spend it as I saw fit.
I entered the vendor's establishment at my local railway station, prepared to steadfastly defend my honour and my purchase of a pint of milk. And a Mars Bar and a Bounty. What?
As per last week, I shall be played by Me, and the Spar Lady shall be portrayed by SL. ALTHOUGH I should point out now that the Spar Lady isn't the one who served me last week.
Me: Just those three, please.
SL: That's two pounds and three, please.*1
I hand over the money. If anything's going to happen, it's going to be now.
SL: Thank you. Would you like a bag?
Me: No, I'm fine thanks.
SL: Okay, that's seven ninety seven change.
Me: Brilliant, thank you.
SL: Is there anything else I can do for you today?
Me: ...no, that's great thanks. Bye.
SL: Bye.
Now that may seem like exactly the kind of verbal exchange you want in that situation, and on the surface I'd be inclined to agree. But at no point did the sales assistant act in a cheerful, breezy manner to accompany this banter. In fact, she played a deadpan performance, throughout. If I was a cynical person (...yeah), I'd call it borderline sarcastic.
Fortunately, as with last week, my powers of reasoning and rapier wit are just beginning to fire up at that time of the morning. Because of this, I didn't rise to the bait laid down by the shop assistant. Otherwise, the situation could have been a bit different...
Cue flashback wobbly transitional effect and harp music.
SL: Thank you. Would you like a bag?
Me: No, I'm fine thanks.
SL: Okay, that's seven ninety seven change.
Me: Brilliant, thank you.
SL: Is there anything else I can do for you today?
Me: ...well, my carriage is outside, perhaps you could see my horse into your stables for the night? My driver will need accomodation, too.
SL: Pardon?
Me: Well, I appear to be some Lord of the Manor, flashing around the kind of currency that, far from frustrating you at the reduction of the amount of change you carry, has actually stunned you into subserviance! You view this ten pound note, bearing the stiking image of our monarch, and immediately realise your station in life; to wit, that it is several steps below my own. Well done.
SL: Er, I was only being polite.
Me: Well you say that, but you haven't furnished the same level of courtesy on anyone else in the queue. If anything, your manner with them has been somewhat surly. And although the tone in your voice and your general expression hasn't changed since I arrived at the head of the queue, your words themselves are suddenly quite, quite different.
SL: Look, you're holding the line up...
Me: No-one else in this establishment has served me in this most courteous fashion, and I can't help but wonder what has incurred the change in direction with the Spar corporation's Customer Service Procedure. Has this come down from your superiors, I wonder? Or is it just the first time you've seen a banknote of this large a denomination?
SL: Why are you being like this?
Me: Why are YOU being like this? If you're going to be polite, then do it properly by all means, but you have to do the actions as well as the words. Your demeanour this morning smacks of insincerity, madam. While I myself may not be chirpy and delightful, you can be sure that what you are seeing is an accurate representation of my state of mind, and that I can still execute politeness without being sanctimonious.
SL: Okay look, I was being a bit sarcastic because you were paying with a note.
Me: HA! I fucking KNEW it.
SL: It's just something we do in here to pass the time, although I suspect most checkout workers do this.
Me: But surely you must spend most of every morning doing it? At this time of the day, that's what most of your custom is: people wanting change.
SL: ...well, yes...
Me: And yet, I'm not buying a 25p paper, or a 60p pack of chewing gum. I'm spending over two pounds, and you have the temerity, the sheer fucking brass neck, to act as if I'm an inconvenience? The very NATURE of you store is convenience. THAT IS WHY YOU ARE EMPLOYED HERE.
SL: ...we don't have a lot of change...
Me: I beg your fucking pardon? I thought this was a shop. You don't hear a decorator complaining that he doesn't have a lot of paint, do you? I fucking tried to play your game last week by purchasing goods with change, and look where that got me: a disinterested shop assistant and an imaginary fucking argument on the legality of Crown Dependency currency. So today I thought, 'fuck it, I'll be like everyone else, at least then I won't draw irregular flak', but no. You really make this song and fucking dance over everyone who pays with a note, do you? You must be knackered at the end of your shift.
SL: ...we don't have a lot of change...
Me: Fuck your fucking change. This isn't about the change, it's about your bizarre fucking attitude. If you went the extra mile and put a smile on your face while you were trotting out your pleasantries, you might actually convince your half-awake customers that you give a shit. Some would undoubtedly be cheered up by your sunny disposition, and even make a mental note as to the positive transaction experience they'd received in-store. The other retail outlets in the station all pretend to be fucking happy, why can't you?
SL: Why don't you go there to get change then?
Me: Because they're coffee/newspaper vendors, I came here to get fucking milk, didn't I?
SL: You're getting quite worked up now, aren't you?
Me: Yes. Yes, I fucking am. I told you this would happen if I got a second crack at the scenario with the benefit of afterthought. This is precisely why time-travel is a bad idea.
SL: ...do you have a time machine?
Me: No. If I had a time machine, do you think I'd be in a shop buying milk at 07:55?
SL: I don't want to get into a discussion about time travel. It'd be off-topic for one thing.
Me: I know what you're saying, but as usual, readers have probably skipped over this bit.
SL: To see the resolution of the conversation?
Me: Exactly. Although as this is going to be the resolution, this is the bit they'll be reading, and it won't make any sense following the earlier diatribes.
SL: They'll have to scroll back up and read the whole thing then, won't they?
Me: Pretty much.
SL: So have you calmed down, now?
Me: Has your attitude towards the people who effectively pay your wages changed?
SL: ...not really.
Me: Then no. By feigning politeness, you're being impolite. But you knew that. And now I'm late for work.
So why the different attitude when I'm being served?
One thing that could have cause this level of awareness, would be if someone at Spar Head Office had stumbled across my previous blog entry, perhaps by idly typing 'Spar Milk 10p Isle of Man'*2 into Google one lunchtime, perhaps as part of a bet that no results would be forthcoming. After reading the entry, maybe it was circulated to all registered franchisees as a warning? Maybe the staff of my nearest outlet read this in cold horror, and as the penny dropped, replayed their security footage with a tearful checkout assistant shaking in the corner, re-living the scarring moment again...
Although the number of hits my blog's had would suggest otherwise. Which means they probably printed it off and faxed it round.
This has got way more rambly than I originally envisioned it.
*1 Yeah, over two quid for two chocolate bars and a pint of milk. And yet this isn't even the issue. I know, I know. *2 This works, I've tried it.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
Short setup:
I bought a pint of milk this morning to take to work for my coffee. From the Spar at the train station.
What happened:,
The Spar-lady calls 'next please', and I put the carton of milk on the counter with 60p in my hand...
Me: Just that one, please.
SL: Fifty nine, please.
I hand over the sixty pence.
SL: Oh, I can't take that ten, it's from the Isle of Man.
Me: ...is it?
SL: Yes, you see that side's different.
Me: So it is...
I take back the 10p and get another out of my pocket, checking it first.
Me: That one any good?
SL: Yeah, that's fine. 1p change, thank you very much.
Me: Thanks, bye.
But you know, it almost didn't play out like that...
The Spar-lady calls 'next please', and I put the carton of milk on the counter with 60p in my hand. I know it's 60p because I'm an adult and I can tell what a 50p and a 10p look like, even though I don't analyse every individual coin that passes through my hands.
Me: Just that one, please.
SL: Fifty nine, please.
I hand over the sixty pence. Which I know is sixty pence, remember.
SL: Oh, I can't take that ten, it's from the Isle of Man.
Me: ...is it?
SL: Yes, you see that side's different.
Me: Still ten pence, though, isn't it?
SL: Yes, but it's Isle of Man currency. It's technically not legal tender in mainland UK, only in the Crown Dependency under which it's been issued.
Me: I understand that, but firstly, it's not like I'm trying to spend a foreign £20 note, it's ten fucking pence, and secondly, it's the same size, weight, colour and general appearance of a UK 10p. AND IT SAYS 10p ON IT. In fact, it says quite a lot about you that you so stringently examine each coin you're handed. If you applied the same diligence to monitoring the sell-by dates on your fresh produce, I think this particular franchise would have a better reputation.
SL: It's from the Isle of Man.
Me: Yeah, I don't think you've understood. It's SO close in its mechanical aspects to a UK 10p, that you could undoubtedly slip it in with the other coinage and it'd probably go undetected from this point onwards.
SL: It's from the Isle of Man.
Me: Ffs, you should be grateful that I'm offering to pay with the exact money at all. Most of the people in here every morning are only buying low-value items in order to get change for their notes. I'm not one of those bastards, I've GOT CHANGE. You should be ushering me to the front of the queue ahead of the others, eager to serve me first to bolster your till-float, and to process a quick transaction that doesn't involve me avoiding eye contact when handing you an unreasonably high-denomonation banknote, and you sighing and counting out my change with a grimace.
SL: It's from the Isle of Man.
Me: SO'S NORMAN WISDOM! Well, he lived there anyway, for tax purposes. By refusing this coin, you're essentially renouncing the works of one of our nation's best loved comedians, and urinating into his still-warm grave. And Rick Wakeman from off of the pop group Yes and Watchdog. They were next-door neighbours, you know. I wrote a movie treatment about it once.
SL: ...it's from the Isle of Man.
Me: Fiscal racism, that's what it is. This coin is identical in every aspect apart from its superficial appearance, INCLUDING the value which has been ascribed to it, to its UK counterpart. You are discriminating against the coin, purely because of how it looks to you, despite its ACTUAL value being the same in EVERY SENSE. In fact, I don't think I want to give you this coin. You're not open-minded enough to deserve it.
SL: It's from the Isle of man.
Me: Do you examine the change you give OUT in the same fashion? I can't imagine so. If all members of staff are qualified metallurgists like yourself, then I don't suppose there'd be any need. And yet somehow I suspect that's not the case...
SL: It's. From. The. Isle. Of. Man.
Me: Right, here's what's going to happen. Against my better judgement (and because there's now a substantial queue), I'm going to take that Isle of Man 10p and give you a nice wholesome UK one in its place, which is what a financial xenophobe like you wants. THEN later on I'm going to try it in the vending machine at work. If the finely tuned piece of precision engineering accepts the coin, despite it having been manufactured specifically to test the validity of the payment it receives, with its cold clinical emotionless and non prejudiced analysis, then you will be less good than a robot. I'm going to prove that YOU ARE MORE CLOSED-MINDED THAN A ROBOT. And I shall take you, and quite possibly your employer, to task in my Online Journal, whereby my digitally literate acquantaintances shall learn all about your inability to adapt to our multicultural 21st century society.
SL: Okay, 1) I think everyone's stopped reading by now, and 2) It's from the Isle of Man.
Me: ...look, there's 10p, give me that one back. I've got to go to work.
SL: k.thx.bye
As I said, that second part didn't happen. The first part did. But for a moment, it could have gone either way. So, I went to work, and what would you know, the vending machine accepted my foreign, illegal tender.
...FUCK. I've broken the law, haven't I?
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
Do you know why you can't buy Spangles any more? Or Newcastle Amber Ale? Or black & White CRT televisions? Supply and demand. It's how consumerism works, generally. They don't make them because there aren't enough people who want them. In some cases it's a bit sad (Amber Ale), and in some cases it's completely justifiable (the televisions). But ultimately, I do understand, and more to the point, I accept it.
With that in mind, who's growing orange trees in 2011? I mean, other than orange farmers.
Most oranges you buy have got fucking pips in them. Why is this, please? No, I know why evolution put them there, and I know what their purpose is, I mean why are they in my oranges in 2011? I don't want to grow an orange tree. No-one I know wants to grow an orange tree. And correct me if I'm wrong, but they don't have a dual-purpose. If I'm not wanting to use them to propagate my own orange trees (and let's face it, it's not in the interests of Tesco, Sainsbury's, or the orange-farming community to give me this opportunity for 'free'), then they're just a waste of my fucking time, aren't they? Other than the continuation of the species, there is no reason (NO. REASON.) for the pips being there. And I don't buy oranges in the supermarket so that I can grow my own, any more than I buy burgers so I can make my own cows. As much as I love oranges, they're hard enough work as it is without having to either spit out, or pre-pick out, the bastard pips.
I know, I know: "Buy the ones without the pips in", you helpfully suggest. That's my point, none of oranges in shops NEED the pips in. If they can create some oranges without them (they can), they can do it for all of them. It can't be that difficult, or they wouldn't do it at all. Personally, I don't see why we can't make them all 'easy peelers' too, as that also seems to be possible. But maybe some people actually prefer getting their hands covered in sticky mild acid after slowly and messily removing an outer layer which they won't eat, before spitting out more bits which they won't eat. But I'm not those people.
Orange makers: You know how they stopped putting bleach in penny chews, and took the spikes out of children's toys because everyone had worked out that they weren't needed and were letting the side down a bit? Can you do the same thing with oranges, please? Thank you so much.
Any while I'm on, do there really need to be that many types of orange? I mean, I like them all, but it seems a bit selfish on the part of the orange manufacturers. In Sainsbury's tonight, there's two types of lemon, one type of lime, and thirteen different types of orange. Justify that. Does it seem right to you? Where's the lemon and lime love, eh?
Oh, and if you could take the pips out of lemons while you're on, that'd be great, thanks. I don't need them, either.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
