Tax-fayer punded ejewcayshon

This afternoon I have a rare, thankfully, opportunity to spend time in his pompous company because we have The Parent-Teacher Interview and we're going along together. Here's hoping he's sober. Here's hoping I don't lose my temper and assert that the only thing that will rescue her now is a one-way ticket to Australia and any half decent private school over back home. To do so would antagonise him and guarantee that as well as being pissed he'd be pugnacious by the time I got home from work.

This whole parent interview lark is an utterly pointless exercise, conducted once per school year. Whatever pre-conceptions I might have harboured have long since been slayed by the relentless purposelessness of business. I am weary of the ritual, the lack of constructive dialogue, the lack of evidence that anything positive is ever achieved. Nothing has happened in six years now of these meetings to suggest that even one of the teachers has properly heard a word I've said.

Let me tell you know how I expect this thing to run, and I promise to come back and admit if this year turns out to be any kind of improvement on past bitter experience.

The class teacher, this year a lady we've not met before*, will introduce her, she will invite us to express any concerns we might have and raise any other issues, then she will sit across the desk from us, alternately fidgetting with the list of parents to see and looking at her watch; after a short time she will interupt us to deliver a cursory, glib and useless assessment of the offspring's level of attainment and prospects then asks us more or less politely to leave and make way for the next set of victims.

We will leave with little or no idea of her prospects of passing her 11-plus and getting into a half-decent school. We may find that she's in a class with a teacher who is personally opposed to selection and prepared to be actively obstructive. The lottery doesn't start with applying to schools it starts with the random nature of the mind set of each year's class teacher.

We'll receive no guidance as to the support we can and should be providing to develop our daughter, only facile exhortations to have her complete the set homework: the homework set to be achievable by the hopeless offspring of the feckless welfare addicted and the criminal underclass that send their children to the same local school.

Hearty sigh. I picked a bad week to get back on the wagon.

* actually this isn't quite true. I've had to deal with this woman at work. She's neurotic; convinced that we can clone her debit card via the chip and pin device at the tills. Actually neurotic doesn't do her justice. Very quietly she's as mad as a hatter.

I hate customers

Oh, this is another of those "Am I turning English? posts" but its undeniable. I hate them. I hate them all. I hate the ones that race up and down aisles pushing trollies or in mobility carts knocking merchandise and other customers aside in their single minded obsession with whatever it is that fills their tiny little minds. I hate the nit pickers who stand there for minutes after completing a transaction, looking for that one or two 'p' they think we might be taking out of them. I hate the ones who come back weeks after the event with something that wasn't quite right.

I hate you all. It is irrational. Right up until the moment when my meagre earnings are the only justification for having to give the kid glove treatment to some barnacle who has failed to notice the big red and white sign saying Buy One, Get One Free and taken only one. Oops. Can I come back and take another one? No You Can't. That would be theft. Fuck off.

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?

Scabby Lou

Rampant Renee is one of our regular thieves, banned but that doesn't stop her coming in at night when the staff are mostly kiddies and then few and far between. She's absolutely charming about being thrown out, accepting it as part and parcel of being a drug addicted prostitute who makes her meagre earnings go that bit further by stealing anything she can. Cash is for heroin, not food or rent or anything mundane like that.

She has a friend she is often seen running about with. She's not as easy to handle, particularly when she's in the sway of her addiction. Because of her appearance I'd assumed that to be crack but I'm now told its plain old heroin too.

I've also learned her nickname, which might be revolting but its hardly surprising. In fact it sums her up quite neatly. She lives on the same estate as the couple running the cottage industry in flogging on goods nicked from us. Curious.

Scabby Lou is the thief caught today. I went up to have a nose about, one police car still in attendance. Lou was grabbed this morning while security were on the premises. When brought to the security suite for processing she confronted the security officer with a syringe.

She didn't get him and the offending (and offensive) item was removed from her. Hopefully now we won't be seeing much of her for some weeks or even, if we're really lucky, months.

Madame's Cancer Sticks

Her little Ring of Fire has been extinguished. For the past week she's moaned to everyone in a uniform she could grab by the ear. Her particular favourite 'brand' of fag are not in stock. Pea Brain dealt with her initially, took the details and left a message for the Big Swinging Dick to add them to the next order. Whether or not he did is now a moot point.

A range of products are produced by our suppliers. We purchase a slightly restricted range from them. In turn individual stores may only order products set out in their individual 'plan'. But between plan editions specific products may be withdrawn either briefly (supply chain disruption), temporarily (as for example when a repackaging or re-branding is underway) or permanently. When that happens the product is flagged as delisted. It can't be ordered. But it is an indication that it will come back in at some time.

Sometimes the Powers That Be decide no longer to stock a product. When that decision is taken the product is flagged as DELETED on the ordering system and no amount of string pulling will get them into stock.

Madame, your Cancer Sticks have been Deleted. You can be as rude to me as you can, but that won't change things. We Ain't Stocking 'Em No More. Geddit?

And if you can't find another brand of fag to smoke you can always spend the money you save on an Anger Management Course.

Vile Customer Anecdote

I can do passive; in fact I did it tonight. No not that. This. If I could name the sad fucker I would. Which is contrary to my usual approach which is to protect equally the innocent and the guilty.

Little Man came into the store to purchase a top up for his Pay As You Go (Vodafone) service. He approached the kiosk which is the area of the store where snacks, tobacco/related, newsmags and lottery products are sold. No scales are available so anything that must be weighed has to go into the main store. On non-Lottery evenings the queues are usual short and it can be quicker to shop there. Fine.

First I knew was a call from the operator who has a customer struggling to understand why the credit he'd purchased isn't yet appearing on his phone.

The minute I laid eyes on him I knew this wouldl be neither quick nor easy. The man is a nasty little bastard with a long record of previous offences against the Good Customer Charter.

"Oh God Man, I paid why isn't it there. You're ripping me off!"

- Sir, you have the docket with the unique credit number. Your next step is to contact the service provider and establish with them why the credit is not yet appearing against your account.

"How do I do that?"

- You call their customer services number.

"What's that?"

- I'm sorry sir, I'm with another operator. You should have been provided with that information when you initially subscribed. It should be a free call, too.

"Aw, man; aw, man! You fucking people are always ripping me off."

At this point he produced what looked to me like a brand new phone and started mashing the keys. Every now and then he muttered darkly, pressed a few more buttons randomly and gave us another Aw Man.

This poisonous little creature with his rat-like freatures and his lank, long grey hair was still standing at the head of the queue. Most of his muttering was of the "How do I find the number?" variety.

Patiently I enquired about the swipe card for the Top Up on the off-chance it had a help number somewhere on it.

He turned on me for distracting him from his key mashing. After another few Aw Mans he did delve into his card holder and produce the swipe card. There on the back of it was a three digit help number for subscribers. After several attemps he successfully dialled those three digits and in the correct order too. At that point with all sorts of bells and whistles going, summoning me to the other side of the store, I tried to take my leave of the operator in the belief that our customer was now well on his way to achieving a solution.

That was a mistake, because he couldn't hear what was being said over my talking.

He was there for another fifteen minutes, standing at the head of the queue making life awkward for everyone, effing and blinding for all he was worth as he attempted to negotiate with his mobile telephony service provider.

Vile little bastard. If I get your name I'm posting it here.

The Face Off: a bit more about why I hate kiddies

I started this a while ago, and I might even provide a link.

By kiddies I mean the boys with hardly an excuse to purchase the means with which to shave sprouting about the ends of their spotty chins. I mean the girls in skirts the size of belts and nylon shirts that gape where they should cling and reveal what they should only hint at.

They stagger into the store on Friday nights in groups, vulgar and intimidating. They sway up the alcohol aisle, clasp alcopops their chests, secrete themselves in the public toilets en masse and consume.

If disturbed they put the evidence down the lavatory, or climb up to hide it behind the ceiling tiles.

For the most part they either steal what they want or pay some older person to purchase it. I suppose to some extent their approach just depends on how cashed up mummy and daddy are.

I don't hate kiddies because they are spotty, don't yet need to shave, swagger or wear intrinsically unattractive unflattering clothes. I hate kiddies because they are so Stupid.

One night recently I was called out of the office by one of the operators to look at an ID that had been offered to her as proof of sufficient age to purchase alcohol.

I looked at it, I looked at the queue, I grew increasingly conscious of the long queue of people. I held it in my right hand, the two would be customers stood to my right. I refused to accept the ID. One of the kiddies took the ID from between my fingers and in that split second afterwards I had a thought. While I processed that thought they shouted a bit and left.

Once they were outside everyone relaxed. The customers who'd been held up all agreed they weren't old enough to be buying booze. I berated myself for not keeping hold of the fake ID. The next customer pointed out that he'd be back - He'd Left His £10 Note Behind In His Hurry To Get To The Nearest Alternative Seller Of Alcohol.

I grabbed the note and fled to my office to wait for his return. It took him about 10 Minutes To Realise He'd Left His Money Behind. That's about the length of time it woud take him to walk o Tesco and back.

I explained to him that he could have his money back when he surrendered the ID. He refused to hand it over and I refused to give him back his money. He slowly understood that I wouldn't be intimidated and denied that he had the ID any longer! I told him to go and get it then. He came back in with his mate and after a bit more talking the two of them realised I wouldn't hand over the money until they'd handed me the ID. And at that point the mate extracted the ID from his wallet and gave it to me. I gave them their money. They'll need it to buy their next piece of fake ID.

Let's hope that the next one isn't something purporting to be a document that most civil libertarians are currently strenuously objecting to having introduced into this country.

Stupid Customer Anecdote #2

Read into that what you will.

A lady came into the store one day last week in search of a particular item - 35mm film. Fair enough. Approached a member of staff for directions and member of staff in turn asked me whether or not we sold said product. As happened I could see said product on display not more than 3 metres from me so pointed both staff and customer towards it.

Customer asked for more help with whereabouts because she couldn't see what I was pointing at. So I pointed again, and explained the product was being displayed in the top left hand corner of the nearest end-of-aisle fixture. "I can't see it," the woman complained and I realised that she was referring to the fixture, not the product - because she'd come out to look for photographic film and not bothered to bring her specs with her. She'd left them at home, as she admitted to me eventually.

Which gave rise to a few questions such as "Why would you?" and "How the hell did she find us?"

Idiot Customer Anecdote #1

And you may read that as you wish.

Customer approaches customer services window with query.

[Background: customer services desk window comprises bullet proof glass and communication is via a two way microphone/speaker system.]

Customer asks question, customer services cover (me) provides answer that is accurate, complete and consise.

Customer indicates she hasn't understood.

Customer services cover repeats answer.

Customer mutters "Oh, I suppose I should put my hearing aid in, wait a minute."

Yes dear, that would be a good idea.