The only good thing about starting work at 7:00 am on Sunday as I did today is that the clocks went back this weekend and it was really 8:00, or at least it really is as far as my body is for the moment concerned.
No doubt a fortnight hence when I have to repeat the ordeal my body will have adjusted and I will wake up with 'unmitigated grim' lying before me. It is cold and dark, probably wet and windy. The only sensible place on such mornings is beneath the covers with something delectable. Failing that alone's fine once one accustoms oneself.
The mystique in which the work of Sunday is shrouded was to be stripped away for me, I was to be inducted into a small coterie of those with the Knowledge. Did I feel priviledged? It was 7:00 am on Sunday morning and priviledge is most definitely what I was feeling.
On the whole I got through the thing as well as possible. I only flustered the Paper Shuffler on a few occasions. I don't think I left her feeling shrunken or inadequate. I just wish she could believe I would look upon an offer of her job, were it to be extended with the standard issue revulsion usually reserved for all poison chalices.
For that matter I wouldn't accept the DM role were it to suddenly become available. Not for all the money they'd offer me.
The current round of 'Annual' appraisals has resulted in some storms and an awful lot of "I'm not talking to you". Well this place is a kindergarten, after all. The Big Swinging Dick and Yoda were at it for almost two hours yesterday, and not in the way the Dick gets at it with the handmaiden. A few other people are revealing for the first time how completely isolated from reality they are. The most highly improbable people enjoy most 'bringing on younger people'.
In fact some of the creative writing this exercise has generated is deeply, almost horrifyingly creepy. I really don't have the hang of this 'Annual' appraisal lark, at all!
The Big Swinging Dick isn't doing all the appraisals but he is doing a selection from across the staff of 100 or thereabouts. That wasn't why he inflicted himself on us mid-morning. Clearly some of the fall-out from his appraisal of the Bolshie Book Worm has still to land. He snuck in, did the rounds then tore a strip off her, but only after letting plenty of people know his intentions.
Kindergarten.
I now have a big notebook to study. If I were a good girl I wouldn't be wasting everyone's time with this stuff. If I learned all this I wouldn't make mistakes and then I couldn't be criticised and that would make everyone miserable because clearly these people thrive on misery, ineptitude, conflict and whatever that other thing is I can't think of right now.
Showing posts with label I work with blithering idiots. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I work with blithering idiots. Show all posts
Sunday, 28 October 2007
Saturday, 27 October 2007
Help Required:
It is annual (!) appraisal time. I didn't go through this last year (or the year before) but it nevertheless to be referred to as the Annual Appraisal. I'm slightly puzzled, because when I was a school girl annual implied once per year. But I'm getting on a bit now, so possibly this confusion is just a by-product of that ageing process.
Any ho. I'm struggling so any assistance will be appreciated. (By the way you all flunked the history test, perhaps you'll find this easier as it relies more heavily on creativity and precision and accuracy are inherently non-obligatory - or that's the approach I'm advocating. Perhaps that's where I'm going wrong.)
The section of the form I'm working on is the Appraisal - Self Assessment part.
The first headline is Customer, and the first question is What have I done Well? which I've answered with - not killed even one of them. The second question is What could I improve? and I've put : obviously under the circumstances nothing. Finally, I'm asked my Objectives for this year? and I've set myself the objective of continuing not to kill or disable any customers, what ever the provocation (and get a new job).
I suspect these answers will be regarded as 'flippant'.
The second headline is People (though the guidance notes provide bullet point guidance for this such as attendance and standard of dress, so perhaps this is a sly Initiative Test), and the questions are the same. My answers are: (a) turned up reliably and disguised my contempt for the job and my colleagues, (b) do the above more ostentatiously, (c) convince everyone I both like and respect them (and get a new job).
The third headline is Finance which I'm to understand to mean accuracy, knowledge of policy and awareness of security. Hm. So far (the questions are the same) I've come up with (a) not nicked anything or knowingly over-charged anyone (b) continue not to nick anything and make burnt offerings to the gods* in the hope that some day soon will harmonise the prices on the shelf with the prices charged at the tills and (c) get a new job that pays me a decent wage (or publish something in the meantime).
Headline number four is Operations and that covers process and procedure : right now my answers are (a) worked out loads of shit all on my own because no fucker's been arsed to actually explain anything to me, (b) work out loads more shit all on my own, but not reveal this out of respect for the feelings of those who are paid more than me, and (c) come up with an escape plan that works, or if that fails take the next annual appraisal (in 2010?) less unseriously (promise).
I have a feeling my approach to this whole appraisal business won't go down well with Paper-Shuffler (-in-Chief). She loves her job and this might make her cry.
Any ho. I'm struggling so any assistance will be appreciated. (By the way you all flunked the history test, perhaps you'll find this easier as it relies more heavily on creativity and precision and accuracy are inherently non-obligatory - or that's the approach I'm advocating. Perhaps that's where I'm going wrong.)
The section of the form I'm working on is the Appraisal - Self Assessment part.
The first headline is Customer, and the first question is What have I done Well? which I've answered with - not killed even one of them. The second question is What could I improve? and I've put : obviously under the circumstances nothing. Finally, I'm asked my Objectives for this year? and I've set myself the objective of continuing not to kill or disable any customers, what ever the provocation (and get a new job).
I suspect these answers will be regarded as 'flippant'.
The second headline is People (though the guidance notes provide bullet point guidance for this such as attendance and standard of dress, so perhaps this is a sly Initiative Test), and the questions are the same. My answers are: (a) turned up reliably and disguised my contempt for the job and my colleagues, (b) do the above more ostentatiously, (c) convince everyone I both like and respect them (and get a new job).
The third headline is Finance which I'm to understand to mean accuracy, knowledge of policy and awareness of security. Hm. So far (the questions are the same) I've come up with (a) not nicked anything or knowingly over-charged anyone (b) continue not to nick anything and make burnt offerings to the gods* in the hope that some day soon will harmonise the prices on the shelf with the prices charged at the tills and (c) get a new job that pays me a decent wage (or publish something in the meantime).
Headline number four is Operations and that covers process and procedure : right now my answers are (a) worked out loads of shit all on my own because no fucker's been arsed to actually explain anything to me, (b) work out loads more shit all on my own, but not reveal this out of respect for the feelings of those who are paid more than me, and (c) come up with an escape plan that works, or if that fails take the next annual appraisal (in 2010?) less unseriously (promise).
I have a feeling my approach to this whole appraisal business won't go down well with Paper-Shuffler (-in-Chief). She loves her job and this might make her cry.
Friday, 12 October 2007
Conspiracy theory
About half a dozen people really care about this but that small fact isn't going to stop me. Oh no.
Bolshie Book Worm's theory is that Paper Shuffler-in-Chief inadvertently set the current drama off, intending to be helpful as always, by having a gentle word in Yoda's ear.
Since she came back from holiday Yoda's barely been able to speak to me. The atmosphere this afternoon when we were both on duty had reduced the the Maltese Terrier to something like an impotent rage.
For the first time in my life I resorted to passing messages to a colleague via a third party because said colleague and I are not talking.
BBW has described this place as a kindergarten. This sort of thing exemplifies the sort of behaviour that led to that description.
This is not an ideal day to attempt to clamber down off the wagon, so I'm not even going to try. I have no idea why I chose that title for this post, but now I've gone to the trouble of typing it, it will stay (until I can work up the enthusiasm to either change it or delete it)
Bolshie Book Worm's theory is that Paper Shuffler-in-Chief inadvertently set the current drama off, intending to be helpful as always, by having a gentle word in Yoda's ear.
Since she came back from holiday Yoda's barely been able to speak to me. The atmosphere this afternoon when we were both on duty had reduced the the Maltese Terrier to something like an impotent rage.
For the first time in my life I resorted to passing messages to a colleague via a third party because said colleague and I are not talking.
BBW has described this place as a kindergarten. This sort of thing exemplifies the sort of behaviour that led to that description.
This is not an ideal day to attempt to clamber down off the wagon, so I'm not even going to try. I have no idea why I chose that title for this post, but now I've gone to the trouble of typing it, it will stay (until I can work up the enthusiasm to either change it or delete it)
Thursday, 11 October 2007
Big Poo Day
There's a visit from the Big Nobs (is there a theme running through this evening's posts?) happening tomorrow. The Big Swinging Dick's Stress-o-Meter has exploded. It is bad enough that he couldn't cancel his course to be on site on the day, but the schedule he drew up put Bolshie Book Worm in charge on the day in question, rather than his hand-styled minion. The prospect of BBW giving some top brass the guided the tour has put him in a strop of epic proportions.
After yesterday's dramas, which involved me having no opportunity to complete my work as I went and necessitated leaving a pile of clearing up for The Novice, I came in to find pretty much exactly what I'd feared. She hadn't coped and had worked her self up into such a state that BBW, who is quite as much an connoisseur of vodka as the Novice and therefore is ordinarily one of her vociferous apologist, had to admit as much even before I'd been in long enough to gauge the scale of the disaster. What made things worse was a failure of The System overnight. Our supplier's support team managed to get the problem fixed by about half eleven, in time for me to get around to clearing up all The Novices little messes. And leave things in good order for her.
And Senior Frustrated Novelist gets to clear up after her tomorrow. Which is a splendid example of shovelling shit into someone else's lap.
After yesterday's dramas, which involved me having no opportunity to complete my work as I went and necessitated leaving a pile of clearing up for The Novice, I came in to find pretty much exactly what I'd feared. She hadn't coped and had worked her self up into such a state that BBW, who is quite as much an connoisseur of vodka as the Novice and therefore is ordinarily one of her vociferous apologist, had to admit as much even before I'd been in long enough to gauge the scale of the disaster. What made things worse was a failure of The System overnight. Our supplier's support team managed to get the problem fixed by about half eleven, in time for me to get around to clearing up all The Novices little messes. And leave things in good order for her.
And Senior Frustrated Novelist gets to clear up after her tomorrow. Which is a splendid example of shovelling shit into someone else's lap.
Wednesday, 5 September 2007
Politics
My understanding of the theory is sound and my ability to analyse is well honed, but my application of its tenets is all over the fucking shop.
I have supervisor who could make my life unpleasant and seriously piss me off with a little gently delivered sugar-coated humiliation.
So why have I apparently initiated a one-woman campaign to nail her to the cross? Who knows. Yesterday I wantonly drew Yoda's attention to the exceptionally risky state of the safe - once her territory, now that of Paper-Shuffler-in-Chief.
Today I came in to take responsibility for the cash situation in the business. I did it. All on my own. From beginning to end, without asking for help from anyone. Second day in. Not too bad. Even spotted the deliberate mistake and worked out exactly how and why things had gone wrong.
The politically astute thing to do when PS-i-C rang to check how I was getting on and help me over the hurdle she expected me to have balked at was to witter "Oh, thank you so much for calling, yes I've managed everything else but there's just this one small thing and I've done this and I've done that and I can't seem to make it work out so thank goodness you've phoned. Blah, blah."
Did I do that? Did I Hell.
She'd hardly opened her gob before I explained that I'd finished, by building my very own ladder to get over that hurdle and this is what it looks like and isn't it perfect and aren't I clever. Oh Dear.
What a sad little show off I am.
That wasn't enough for me though. My monstrous ego trip (that's monstrous ego, not monstrous trip) led me into regurgitating the previous days' safe criticism and proposing a solution and ramming it through which preempted PS-i-C's second call to help me through the treacherous shoals of my new responsibilities. I'm the treacherous one.
Done that already dear. Leave me too it. This job's a breeze. Ta ta.
I have supervisor who could make my life unpleasant and seriously piss me off with a little gently delivered sugar-coated humiliation.
So why have I apparently initiated a one-woman campaign to nail her to the cross? Who knows. Yesterday I wantonly drew Yoda's attention to the exceptionally risky state of the safe - once her territory, now that of Paper-Shuffler-in-Chief.
Today I came in to take responsibility for the cash situation in the business. I did it. All on my own. From beginning to end, without asking for help from anyone. Second day in. Not too bad. Even spotted the deliberate mistake and worked out exactly how and why things had gone wrong.
The politically astute thing to do when PS-i-C rang to check how I was getting on and help me over the hurdle she expected me to have balked at was to witter "Oh, thank you so much for calling, yes I've managed everything else but there's just this one small thing and I've done this and I've done that and I can't seem to make it work out so thank goodness you've phoned. Blah, blah."
Did I do that? Did I Hell.
She'd hardly opened her gob before I explained that I'd finished, by building my very own ladder to get over that hurdle and this is what it looks like and isn't it perfect and aren't I clever. Oh Dear.
What a sad little show off I am.
That wasn't enough for me though. My monstrous ego trip (that's monstrous ego, not monstrous trip) led me into regurgitating the previous days' safe criticism and proposing a solution and ramming it through which preempted PS-i-C's second call to help me through the treacherous shoals of my new responsibilities. I'm the treacherous one.
Done that already dear. Leave me too it. This job's a breeze. Ta ta.
Monday, 3 September 2007
New Land Speed Record
I was late for work, made my grovelling apologies and got down to it.
Ten minutes later I'd lost my rag with a really really really stupid and deeply annoying customer. Her name is Marrilyn (yes, with two Rs, presumably her stupidity is genetic and inherited).
There she was at the check-out with two cans of the really really cheap (and almost certainly nasty) Cook In Sauce. For the uninitiated a Cook In Sauce is a jar (less cheap and nasty) or tin can (more cheap and nasty) of a sauce that when added to meat (and possibly other ingredients) and cooked creates some semblance of the dish the name of which the label bears.
These things are a cop out for those too proud to actually stoop to the frozen pre-cooked version or even, heave help everyone the canned version of the given dish. The necessity for combining ingredients and applying heat somehow assuages any guilt or sense of inadequacy that might otherwise be suffered.
One particular range is subject to an offer; she'd picked up one from the offer range and another outside the offer. She'd gone to the express lane, unfortunately then being worked by one of our premium grade shit-stirrers. They put their heads together and decided things weren't right. They were right. The offer had worked anyway and the customer had got the cheaper one free. She'd saved herself exactly the amount promised on the promotion literature.
She wouldn't shut up about the anomaly, the operator wouldn't shut up about the anomaly, I explained what had happened, they still wouldn't shut up, I had another go at explaining what had happened and how she hadn't been ripped off by us for the grand sum of 16 pence, the two still wouldn't shut up about it and drew the people behind her into the conversation, I changed the price of the more expensive item to the lower price, still the pair droned on, I had one more attempt at explaining what had happened and, as I stalked off she brought some people from the next door queue into the conversation.
She thinks I'm a rude bitch. I think she's a stupid bitch. She's a co-worker who had finished her shift and was on her way home.
That's sterling team work, eh?
Ten minutes later I'd lost my rag with a really really really stupid and deeply annoying customer. Her name is Marrilyn (yes, with two Rs, presumably her stupidity is genetic and inherited).
There she was at the check-out with two cans of the really really cheap (and almost certainly nasty) Cook In Sauce. For the uninitiated a Cook In Sauce is a jar (less cheap and nasty) or tin can (more cheap and nasty) of a sauce that when added to meat (and possibly other ingredients) and cooked creates some semblance of the dish the name of which the label bears.
These things are a cop out for those too proud to actually stoop to the frozen pre-cooked version or even, heave help everyone the canned version of the given dish. The necessity for combining ingredients and applying heat somehow assuages any guilt or sense of inadequacy that might otherwise be suffered.
One particular range is subject to an offer; she'd picked up one from the offer range and another outside the offer. She'd gone to the express lane, unfortunately then being worked by one of our premium grade shit-stirrers. They put their heads together and decided things weren't right. They were right. The offer had worked anyway and the customer had got the cheaper one free. She'd saved herself exactly the amount promised on the promotion literature.
She wouldn't shut up about the anomaly, the operator wouldn't shut up about the anomaly, I explained what had happened, they still wouldn't shut up, I had another go at explaining what had happened and how she hadn't been ripped off by us for the grand sum of 16 pence, the two still wouldn't shut up about it and drew the people behind her into the conversation, I changed the price of the more expensive item to the lower price, still the pair droned on, I had one more attempt at explaining what had happened and, as I stalked off she brought some people from the next door queue into the conversation.
She thinks I'm a rude bitch. I think she's a stupid bitch. She's a co-worker who had finished her shift and was on her way home.
That's sterling team work, eh?
Saturday, 18 August 2007
Fiddling the books
Would I ever do a bunk with great wodges of cash? No. Why? Because I couldn't be bothered. Too much hassle. I'd rather be poor than guilty.
So I didn't appreciate the call I got on Thursday afternoon. Right in the middle of dealing with the possibility of the bastard being under my feet for another whole day the phone rang and it was the Paper Shuffler in Chief wanting basically to know if I could explain a cash shortfall of £500 or thereabouts. Now, I've already made clear that I'd not nick great wodges of cash because of the effort and stress involved. But £500? That amount of money wouldn't get me on an airplane going somewhere useful like Brazil or the Coasta del Crime or where ever it is that chavy fools who've dipped into the petty cash are supposed to flee to. It would take most of that in taxi fares to get me to the nearest international airport.
So No, Dear. It isn't me. Since I didn't close the banking with a shortfall it is probably you, or possibly the person who was doing the accounting the previous evening not adding up properly. Try taking off your socks if you can't work the calculator properly.
So I didn't appreciate the call I got on Thursday afternoon. Right in the middle of dealing with the possibility of the bastard being under my feet for another whole day the phone rang and it was the Paper Shuffler in Chief wanting basically to know if I could explain a cash shortfall of £500 or thereabouts. Now, I've already made clear that I'd not nick great wodges of cash because of the effort and stress involved. But £500? That amount of money wouldn't get me on an airplane going somewhere useful like Brazil or the Coasta del Crime or where ever it is that chavy fools who've dipped into the petty cash are supposed to flee to. It would take most of that in taxi fares to get me to the nearest international airport.
So No, Dear. It isn't me. Since I didn't close the banking with a shortfall it is probably you, or possibly the person who was doing the accounting the previous evening not adding up properly. Try taking off your socks if you can't work the calculator properly.
Monday, 30 July 2007
You give them an inch
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. That was supposed to be my working week, followed by a clear two day break, and then another four days. That working stretch included working a Thursday night then turning around and being up for 8:00 so that the Big Swinging Dick and I could get off in good time and prepare ourselves on Friday. That, by the way amounted to an 11 hour gap between the end of one shift and the start of the next, which I have a feeling is either something I had the legal right to refuse or which my employer had no legal right even to ask of me.
Then after night shift I turned around and covered someone some one's arse on Sunday. I have to admit there were no catastrophe's and even Pea Brain was fairly tolerable to work with most of the time. Came home, got some kip in family came back from outing etc etc.
Now my phone's gone off. Senior Frustrated Novelist has phoned in with severe gynaecological problems and she won't come in until she's seen her doctor. That means me doing this evening, possibly tomorrow and possibly not having a single day off between now and my holiday in the second half of August.
I can't tell you how thrilled I am about this. Because I'm not. All I got from the Big Swinging Dick, second hand, was "she'll probably appreciate the money".
Then after night shift I turned around and covered someone some one's arse on Sunday. I have to admit there were no catastrophe's and even Pea Brain was fairly tolerable to work with most of the time. Came home, got some kip in family came back from outing etc etc.
Now my phone's gone off. Senior Frustrated Novelist has phoned in with severe gynaecological problems and she won't come in until she's seen her doctor. That means me doing this evening, possibly tomorrow and possibly not having a single day off between now and my holiday in the second half of August.
I can't tell you how thrilled I am about this. Because I'm not. All I got from the Big Swinging Dick, second hand, was "she'll probably appreciate the money".
Sunday, 29 July 2007
Poor Baby
Micky mouse was a sad case, bearing a close resemblance to a very well known British comedy actor, but with worse teeth.
He had a rather peculiar habit of naming the anthropomorphic chocolate confectionery, and caring when they were purchased for consumption. He worried over the fate of the soft toys we sell.
Hmm.
Young Micky forged an incomprehensible alliance with a couple of other deeply odd employees of similar age. They liked (and still like) Micky because he'd fork out so they could ALL go to the cinema etc together.
Then he developed tooth ache and one of my colleagues discovered that His Parents Had Never Taken Him To A Dentist. She made him an appointment and the dentist, sensing his fortune being guaranteed, given the state of the young man's teeth, has taken Micky under his wing. She (the colleague) and with only self-interest slightly in line has taken Micky in as a lodger. It has got him out from under the malign influence of his mother who had a habit of co-opting his pay cheques to pay for satellite TV etc.
Now Micky has a girlfriend. My colleague has missed a trick. Shortly before Poor Sod left he roped Micky Mouse into a certain extracurricular activity. This brought Micky into the sphere of influence of Poor Sod's mother in law who has two other daughters to ship out to the first available unsuspecting victim. The youngest one is sorted with one of our other employees but the middle one, who has severe epilepsy and was got pregnant at the age of 15 by a boyfriend (allegedly while she was either fitting or spaced out on her meds, the story does waver slightly). The baby is now about six months old and someone's got to take responsibility.
Enter stage left our Micky Mouse. Just like the fly blithely drifting into a spider's web. This is a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire. Everybody can see it except Micky. He has his faults, but if I could rescue him I would. Right now he thinks he's in heaven. And he isn't even getting his leg over because "that wouldn't be right yet".
Bloody hell. All this and honour too?
He had a rather peculiar habit of naming the anthropomorphic chocolate confectionery, and caring when they were purchased for consumption. He worried over the fate of the soft toys we sell.
Hmm.
Young Micky forged an incomprehensible alliance with a couple of other deeply odd employees of similar age. They liked (and still like) Micky because he'd fork out so they could ALL go to the cinema etc together.
Then he developed tooth ache and one of my colleagues discovered that His Parents Had Never Taken Him To A Dentist. She made him an appointment and the dentist, sensing his fortune being guaranteed, given the state of the young man's teeth, has taken Micky under his wing. She (the colleague) and with only self-interest slightly in line has taken Micky in as a lodger. It has got him out from under the malign influence of his mother who had a habit of co-opting his pay cheques to pay for satellite TV etc.
Now Micky has a girlfriend. My colleague has missed a trick. Shortly before Poor Sod left he roped Micky Mouse into a certain extracurricular activity. This brought Micky into the sphere of influence of Poor Sod's mother in law who has two other daughters to ship out to the first available unsuspecting victim. The youngest one is sorted with one of our other employees but the middle one, who has severe epilepsy and was got pregnant at the age of 15 by a boyfriend (allegedly while she was either fitting or spaced out on her meds, the story does waver slightly). The baby is now about six months old and someone's got to take responsibility.
Enter stage left our Micky Mouse. Just like the fly blithely drifting into a spider's web. This is a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire. Everybody can see it except Micky. He has his faults, but if I could rescue him I would. Right now he thinks he's in heaven. And he isn't even getting his leg over because "that wouldn't be right yet".
Bloody hell. All this and honour too?
Saturday, 21 July 2007
Sexy Steve and the Slightly Pale Hallows
What a bloody palaver. One of the Wet Ones took today off as leave to read That Book. He went over to Xville to get his copy at midnight or one minute past. The police officer girlfriend of someone else had her copy delivered to her home at a similar time - the boyfriend has been warned to stay away until she's finished it.
The world seems to be divided into those who are immune to the infection and those who have totally succumbed. To my slight surprise the Bolshevik Bookworm hasn't stepped between the pages. I was slightly less surprised to discover that Yoda has no idea what the books are all about. Then again I'd me rather more surprised to discover that she had actually read a book. We have two copies and I've got about a quarter of the way through.
They were delivered into the store yesterday afternoon, minus the display stand we were supposed to be using and which was supposed to have been brought to us by Parcelforce earlier in the day. Also the promotional material announcing that the book IS on sale - to replace the promotional material announcing the imminent arrival of That Book - couldn't be found and I strongly suspect that one of the Wet Ones has taken it home and put it up on its bedroom wall.
So there I was locked away in my little office with five boxes of the most sought after piece of execrable 'literature' to come into existence since the last HP novel was released. All evening. I could have read the thing then, and no-one would have been the wiser since the BB had opened on of the boxes to confirm the contents and opened one of the inner linings so that she could torment the Wet Ones with a glimpse of the cover waved from the office door.
Sexy Steve had confirmed that the book was on its way to us earlier in the day, I think. It isn't always easy to tell with Steve. The only thing normal about him, as far as I am concerned, is that he fancies men. I mean, I do, why shouldn't he. I don't fancy women. Why should he. The problem straight men have with men finding them attractive baffles me. Don't they wish to be found attractive? Don't they find themselves attractive? Do they consider their wives/girlfriends sick for finding them attractive? On that last point I think the answer probably actually is, yes. But then most men don't think much of woman which is why it is alright for them sleep with men rather than women and do the things men expect of them. Now that I've tangled myself up in a knot I shall move on.
Steve sent an email out yesterday which mentioned a couple of Queens and a girl called Dorothy and we tentatively concluded that the HP book might be on its way to us. A short while later we took a call from a very slightly contrite and less deranged sounding Sexy Steve that sort of confirmed what we'd sort of deduced. Our suspicion is that Steve had had a rocket fired up his arse for distributing utter gibberish on the company intranet which would be a breach of any IT non-misuse policy we might happen to have. Personally I think that any such reprimand would have been harsh no matter how much Steve might have enjoyed it - everyone else has been using the intranet for the distribution of nonsense; why should Steve be singled out for censure?
So we got the book out after closing time yesterday and printed out some in-house promo. stuff. As I said we've got two copies in the house now. I dragged the offspring out of bed and up the road at Sparrow's Fart to buy them.
The little Tesco over the road, into which we popped for a couple of bits I'd forgotton is flogging the book at 1p more than us or £4.99 less than us - if you spend £50 or more. This gesture would be more gallant if there were £40.00 or more worth of other goods in our micro Tesco worth purchasing.
More anon concerning Mighty T and also an update on the Anal Fistula situation.
The world seems to be divided into those who are immune to the infection and those who have totally succumbed. To my slight surprise the Bolshevik Bookworm hasn't stepped between the pages. I was slightly less surprised to discover that Yoda has no idea what the books are all about. Then again I'd me rather more surprised to discover that she had actually read a book. We have two copies and I've got about a quarter of the way through.
They were delivered into the store yesterday afternoon, minus the display stand we were supposed to be using and which was supposed to have been brought to us by Parcelforce earlier in the day. Also the promotional material announcing that the book IS on sale - to replace the promotional material announcing the imminent arrival of That Book - couldn't be found and I strongly suspect that one of the Wet Ones has taken it home and put it up on its bedroom wall.
So there I was locked away in my little office with five boxes of the most sought after piece of execrable 'literature' to come into existence since the last HP novel was released. All evening. I could have read the thing then, and no-one would have been the wiser since the BB had opened on of the boxes to confirm the contents and opened one of the inner linings so that she could torment the Wet Ones with a glimpse of the cover waved from the office door.
Sexy Steve had confirmed that the book was on its way to us earlier in the day, I think. It isn't always easy to tell with Steve. The only thing normal about him, as far as I am concerned, is that he fancies men. I mean, I do, why shouldn't he. I don't fancy women. Why should he. The problem straight men have with men finding them attractive baffles me. Don't they wish to be found attractive? Don't they find themselves attractive? Do they consider their wives/girlfriends sick for finding them attractive? On that last point I think the answer probably actually is, yes. But then most men don't think much of woman which is why it is alright for them sleep with men rather than women and do the things men expect of them. Now that I've tangled myself up in a knot I shall move on.
Steve sent an email out yesterday which mentioned a couple of Queens and a girl called Dorothy and we tentatively concluded that the HP book might be on its way to us. A short while later we took a call from a very slightly contrite and less deranged sounding Sexy Steve that sort of confirmed what we'd sort of deduced. Our suspicion is that Steve had had a rocket fired up his arse for distributing utter gibberish on the company intranet which would be a breach of any IT non-misuse policy we might happen to have. Personally I think that any such reprimand would have been harsh no matter how much Steve might have enjoyed it - everyone else has been using the intranet for the distribution of nonsense; why should Steve be singled out for censure?
So we got the book out after closing time yesterday and printed out some in-house promo. stuff. As I said we've got two copies in the house now. I dragged the offspring out of bed and up the road at Sparrow's Fart to buy them.
The little Tesco over the road, into which we popped for a couple of bits I'd forgotton is flogging the book at 1p more than us or £4.99 less than us - if you spend £50 or more. This gesture would be more gallant if there were £40.00 or more worth of other goods in our micro Tesco worth purchasing.
More anon concerning Mighty T and also an update on the Anal Fistula situation.
Thursday, 19 July 2007
Great bearded twits
As previous intimated the blithering idiot quotient of the business I work for is quite high. The capacity for futile activity remains unclear because those boundaries have not properly and thoroughly been explored and charted.
Which is exemplified by the exchange I had with Sid the Sardonic, a denizen of the newly relocated headquarters at Sweepstake City.
Those who've worked here longer than me will swear that Sid was once upon a time fair-minded, civil and helpful. I don't believe in fairy tales. He has a background on the shop floor and knows the score from our point of view.
A couple of minutes after I'd walked in the door at the start of yesterday's shift Sid was on the phone. All my hackles rise the minute I hear his voice. Every little thing that goes wrong is apparently designed to annoy him and he sprays the blame about with far greater enthusiasm than accuracy.
He obviously got out of bed on the wrong side yesterday because he was actually and quite frighteningly pleasant. Or perhaps he's had a personality transplant. Hm. And he was jolly too. He had a problem, he explained, he'd received a message and he didn't understand it at all and perhaps I might be able to help. Truly, deeply bizarre.
He was looking for the stray manager of another of our outlets. Staff there had given him information suggesting that Little Ben might be with us (to collect some products for transfer between the two stores). I made ostentatious (loud, for the benefit of someone on the other end of a telephone) play of opening and closing the drawers of my desk. Nope, no little managers hiding there.
I rang the two (yes, two) on duty managers. Neither knew anything about Little Ben or indeed a product transfer between our two stores. I relayed this news to Sid who accepted the lack of help with a fine show of grace.
Later in the shift I had the chance to trawl through the store's email to catch up on what had been happening since I'd last been on duty (Sat.). And there, in the deleted folder denoting they'd been read and dealt with by management, confirming they'd been received, and replied to (suggesting that they should, in line with store policy, be in the email file to be read by everybody) were emails concerning a transfer of stock between our store and that of Little Ben.
Ooops. The final email laid out the mechanism by which the transfer would be effected: the usual means of the delivery van collecting.
And the delivery man was to be instructed to collect by none other than one of the email recipients. A chap called Sid.
Sid the Stupid?
Which is exemplified by the exchange I had with Sid the Sardonic, a denizen of the newly relocated headquarters at Sweepstake City.
Those who've worked here longer than me will swear that Sid was once upon a time fair-minded, civil and helpful. I don't believe in fairy tales. He has a background on the shop floor and knows the score from our point of view.
A couple of minutes after I'd walked in the door at the start of yesterday's shift Sid was on the phone. All my hackles rise the minute I hear his voice. Every little thing that goes wrong is apparently designed to annoy him and he sprays the blame about with far greater enthusiasm than accuracy.
He obviously got out of bed on the wrong side yesterday because he was actually and quite frighteningly pleasant. Or perhaps he's had a personality transplant. Hm. And he was jolly too. He had a problem, he explained, he'd received a message and he didn't understand it at all and perhaps I might be able to help. Truly, deeply bizarre.
He was looking for the stray manager of another of our outlets. Staff there had given him information suggesting that Little Ben might be with us (to collect some products for transfer between the two stores). I made ostentatious (loud, for the benefit of someone on the other end of a telephone) play of opening and closing the drawers of my desk. Nope, no little managers hiding there.
I rang the two (yes, two) on duty managers. Neither knew anything about Little Ben or indeed a product transfer between our two stores. I relayed this news to Sid who accepted the lack of help with a fine show of grace.
Later in the shift I had the chance to trawl through the store's email to catch up on what had been happening since I'd last been on duty (Sat.). And there, in the deleted folder denoting they'd been read and dealt with by management, confirming they'd been received, and replied to (suggesting that they should, in line with store policy, be in the email file to be read by everybody) were emails concerning a transfer of stock between our store and that of Little Ben.
Ooops. The final email laid out the mechanism by which the transfer would be effected: the usual means of the delivery van collecting.
And the delivery man was to be instructed to collect by none other than one of the email recipients. A chap called Sid.
Sid the Stupid?
Wednesday, 11 July 2007
Bugger it
She's got piles.
Never mind who for the moment. She's a bit mystified by the appeal of 'the whole gay thing' at the moment, as though taking it up the arse amounted to The Whole Gay Thing.
Don't know why I mentioned it except that it rather appeals to me that she has piles and can't ... [see previous post, and if you still don't understand - move on].
Mean time the staffing situation isn't any better. I gave half an hour of my precious life to persuading someone who can't cope with the pressure of an isolated environment selling booze, fags, lighters and gambling products that she remains a Valued Member of Staff.
That's half an hour of my life the company haven't adequately compensated me for.
Never mind who for the moment. She's a bit mystified by the appeal of 'the whole gay thing' at the moment, as though taking it up the arse amounted to The Whole Gay Thing.
Don't know why I mentioned it except that it rather appeals to me that she has piles and can't ... [see previous post, and if you still don't understand - move on].
Mean time the staffing situation isn't any better. I gave half an hour of my precious life to persuading someone who can't cope with the pressure of an isolated environment selling booze, fags, lighters and gambling products that she remains a Valued Member of Staff.
That's half an hour of my life the company haven't adequately compensated me for.
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