Picked up a some new beers today and I've just enjoyed one of them with my supper. They are output of a local company called St Peter's Brewery. The three I got are a Golden Ale (4.7%), an Organic Ale (4.5) and a Best Bitter (3.7). The bitter, which is the one I've tried, isn't as substantial as I'd expected but has interesting notes and reminds me of something I haven't yet put my finger on. The retail price is highly competitive, this is a local brewery which almost but not entirely is grounds enough to buy the product. I like the fact that they're not scared to shift down the alcohol content rather than weigh in on a par with some of the more familiar ales.
Finally the stuff comes in gorgeous bottles. The only shame is that they can't be returned. I think the brewery should be supplying the store selling the stuff with a crate and providing some kind of incentive to consumers to return the bottles. I hate to think of them going into the district recycling scheme where they'll be pulverised. Or even worse, going to land fill courtesy of indolent householders who can't be arsed to separate their waste.
When I was a kid pensioners going around the MCG after a big match with sacks for all the cans was a very familiar sight. When I was very young you could still take some containers back for a few cents a piece.
Then we all went to plastic and tetrapak. A long time later the milk people reintroduced milk in glass bottes. Not those dated pint bottles with the foil top birds could peck through but elegant bottles with metal screw tops. Retail milk is never better than out of glass, and moreover when kept in an air-tight container so that the milk isn't tainted however slightly by whatever else you've got in the fridge.
Within weeks of the glass bottle's reintroduction the supermarket I shopped at would be cleared out before mid-morning of the glass bottle variety, leaving slugs to slope out with their foul tetrapak version.
Ok this turned out to be as much of a rant as a pat on the back. Sorry. The bitter's got to me, I guess.
Thursday, 9 August 2007
Job Crap
I went to work in some trepidation but more hope that my catastrophic error of Tuesday night had finally been uncovered and a P45 had been prepared. No such luck. Another whole afternoon and evening of my life gone down the toilet for minimum wage (or actually a few pence above that because I'm not actually at the bottom of the heap).
The Big Swinging Dick was in a vile mood, though nobody's quite sure why. Perhaps working the hours he does is part of the problem but he will insist, quite unnecessarily on doing both the rostered morning shift and then staying on for the rest of the day to be The Hand Maiden's help mate. Like she can't run the place on her own.
Neither was anywhere to be seen when some preposterously tall prick baled me up with a complaint about our unreliable checkouts. Well, doh. Tell me (and the rest of the world, for that matter) something new. The crap we use was crap when it was installed. Now it's antique crap. Rumours abound that they're working up plans for a refit. The betting is that what goes in will be a job lot picked up off the back of someone's van, but only after Tesco and the others have fingered it.
T'wasn't all doom and gloom today. Someone confided in someone who in turn gleefully reported to me that I scare him. Excellent. Turns out I scare the whole fucking lot of kiddies. Not enough so that they actually earn their pay, but scaring them at all is enough to brighten my day somewhat.
The Big Swinging Dick was in a vile mood, though nobody's quite sure why. Perhaps working the hours he does is part of the problem but he will insist, quite unnecessarily on doing both the rostered morning shift and then staying on for the rest of the day to be The Hand Maiden's help mate. Like she can't run the place on her own.
Neither was anywhere to be seen when some preposterously tall prick baled me up with a complaint about our unreliable checkouts. Well, doh. Tell me (and the rest of the world, for that matter) something new. The crap we use was crap when it was installed. Now it's antique crap. Rumours abound that they're working up plans for a refit. The betting is that what goes in will be a job lot picked up off the back of someone's van, but only after Tesco and the others have fingered it.
T'wasn't all doom and gloom today. Someone confided in someone who in turn gleefully reported to me that I scare him. Excellent. Turns out I scare the whole fucking lot of kiddies. Not enough so that they actually earn their pay, but scaring them at all is enough to brighten my day somewhat.
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
Bad Girl (sack me please)
I could do with doing something else. My job bores me witless. I know someone has to do it. Some people are born to do it. My immediate supervisor simply adores her job which is a glorified and slightly better paid version of my job. She's one of those people who lives to work. Her job and employer are just about the sum total of her life now her kids have left secondary school.
She's been at her kitchen table drafting Christmas schedules this week. She's happier than a pig in shit counting in boxes of pen and rationing paper clips.
If there were a better job in this town, if I weren't too poor to run a car, if I had indefinite leave to remain and could actually apply for a permanent post rather than a fixed term post then I would. If I could ditch the shit bag husband and the mountains of crap he insists on having in our tiny house... If. What a great big word.
Well today wasn't a day like most days. The Big Swinging Dick and I went off on another tour of the county. We left early so that BSD could get in a little shopping (a belated birthday present for the Handmaiden being required). He was in good form, and as this was our second "date" we were a little more relaxed in the company of one another. He's amazingly comfortable talking about the difficulties in his marriage, but also intriguingly expectant that he and Mrs BSD will be together in retirement OopNorth.
Probably what ever is going on between he BSD and the HM, if indeed anything is going on, is nothing more than an elegant bit of R&R. But most people are convinced that theirs is one long and unremitting shag fest or that nothing s going on but the BSD is nevertheless totally in thrall to the Hand Maiden's pert rear end.
Any hoo, we nattered about this and that, found common ground in despising Dubya and reluctantly agreeing that in certain lights such as the current one Reagan doesn't look so bad. Neither of us is terribly keen on God Botherers of any faith or denomination and look on in despair at the contortions Homo Sapiens Sapiens tends to perform over a turn of phrase or the meaning of a word, and the resultant mess that always ensues.
Apart from one short outburst on the motorway his leaden foot was kept under control and there were, obviously since I'm typing this out, no mishaps. The meeting itself went as smoothly as expected. Since we were there to deliver chastisement rather than dismissal and the girl herself has been proactive in getting the help she so clearly and desperately stands in need of the atmosphere was lighter and we all ended up hoping the best for one another.
On the way out of town I confided child care problems to BSD (looming this Sat., pm when we're both expected to be working) and he's agreed that the offspring can sit upstairs and run (for that is what the little bossy boots will undoubtedly do) the staff canteen. The staff currently think Pea Brain a tough task master. They've not seen anything yet.
My Feral Pig isn't the least bit grateful that I've sorted things out but I have my own special form of revenge for that in store. I've been keeping an eye on my calendar and I am going to be absolutely full of PMT right about Sunday evening.
I had to say something because I failed yet again to get myself sacked from my dismal job. I failed to send off an order yesterday evening which ought in my book be sackable offence. No such fucking luck. In fact no one said a word.
Must try harder next time. Perhaps if I emptied the safe? No, that won't work. I just want to be sacked, not shipped off to prison.
Any suggestions for where the middle ground might lie?
She's been at her kitchen table drafting Christmas schedules this week. She's happier than a pig in shit counting in boxes of pen and rationing paper clips.
If there were a better job in this town, if I weren't too poor to run a car, if I had indefinite leave to remain and could actually apply for a permanent post rather than a fixed term post then I would. If I could ditch the shit bag husband and the mountains of crap he insists on having in our tiny house... If. What a great big word.
Well today wasn't a day like most days. The Big Swinging Dick and I went off on another tour of the county. We left early so that BSD could get in a little shopping (a belated birthday present for the Handmaiden being required). He was in good form, and as this was our second "date" we were a little more relaxed in the company of one another. He's amazingly comfortable talking about the difficulties in his marriage, but also intriguingly expectant that he and Mrs BSD will be together in retirement OopNorth.
Probably what ever is going on between he BSD and the HM, if indeed anything is going on, is nothing more than an elegant bit of R&R. But most people are convinced that theirs is one long and unremitting shag fest or that nothing s going on but the BSD is nevertheless totally in thrall to the Hand Maiden's pert rear end.
Any hoo, we nattered about this and that, found common ground in despising Dubya and reluctantly agreeing that in certain lights such as the current one Reagan doesn't look so bad. Neither of us is terribly keen on God Botherers of any faith or denomination and look on in despair at the contortions Homo Sapiens Sapiens tends to perform over a turn of phrase or the meaning of a word, and the resultant mess that always ensues.
Apart from one short outburst on the motorway his leaden foot was kept under control and there were, obviously since I'm typing this out, no mishaps. The meeting itself went as smoothly as expected. Since we were there to deliver chastisement rather than dismissal and the girl herself has been proactive in getting the help she so clearly and desperately stands in need of the atmosphere was lighter and we all ended up hoping the best for one another.
On the way out of town I confided child care problems to BSD (looming this Sat., pm when we're both expected to be working) and he's agreed that the offspring can sit upstairs and run (for that is what the little bossy boots will undoubtedly do) the staff canteen. The staff currently think Pea Brain a tough task master. They've not seen anything yet.
My Feral Pig isn't the least bit grateful that I've sorted things out but I have my own special form of revenge for that in store. I've been keeping an eye on my calendar and I am going to be absolutely full of PMT right about Sunday evening.
I had to say something because I failed yet again to get myself sacked from my dismal job. I failed to send off an order yesterday evening which ought in my book be sackable offence. No such fucking luck. In fact no one said a word.
Must try harder next time. Perhaps if I emptied the safe? No, that won't work. I just want to be sacked, not shipped off to prison.
Any suggestions for where the middle ground might lie?
Tuesday, 7 August 2007
Kiddies
Mother nature played a cruel trick on Australia. She bestowed upon her vast quantities of top grade, easily extractable iron ore, vast reserves of coal, an immense coast line and then positioned her at the arse end of the globe. [New Zealand is beyond the arse end of the world, where ever that is]. Even then things would have been fine but Mother nature, fickle floozy that she is put the iron ore on the western side of the continent and the coal on the other side. Make economically viable steel out of that.
Well we just about have.
Our farmers extract a living from unlikely soil. We have literacy and numeracy levels just about as high as those any where in the world.
The kiddies we employ, as opposed to those we've rejected as unsuitable, work an entire shift before they've earned an hour's pay. That's a cage of goods put out per person per shift when it should be a cage of goods per half hour. Danny, James and Jack - consider yourselves shamed. Jack, I know you've got a my space presence and I'm not afraid to use it, so extract yourself from your student rep activities just long enough to actually earn what we're paying you. OK?
Well we just about have.
Our farmers extract a living from unlikely soil. We have literacy and numeracy levels just about as high as those any where in the world.
The kiddies we employ, as opposed to those we've rejected as unsuitable, work an entire shift before they've earned an hour's pay. That's a cage of goods put out per person per shift when it should be a cage of goods per half hour. Danny, James and Jack - consider yourselves shamed. Jack, I know you've got a my space presence and I'm not afraid to use it, so extract yourself from your student rep activities just long enough to actually earn what we're paying you. OK?
Junior Talent Team
Hardly had I heard the last word on Crack Head when we received a tip (from Kids, OK) that we had a tribe of little kids "nicking stuff". Off I went with The Ferret. We make a fine tag team wandering up and down cornering the little shitters. There they were, eventually, attempting to make a nonchalant getaway with their one drawstring bag over the should of the smallest of the lot.
The Bolshie Book Worm joined us in the cornering and demanded the contents of the bag. The smallest, for it was he carrying the bag, made some play of being unable to open it and tried to palm the thing off on to one of his mates. I think he'd slightly missed the point behind him being the bag carrier not that any of them were likely to be more than 12 years old.
When his mates declined to take the bag and open it he did what BBW was asking and from it she extracted a double Galaxy bar pack. They'd not got the vodka they were aiming for. BBW sent them off with a flea in their collective ear, the tallest though not necessarily the eldest almost in tears and protesting as he went that "it ain't nuffin' ta do wiff me".
Outside they rejoined their parents to whom they had (I suspect) to confess that they'd been rumbled and unable to snatch the booze.
The Bolshie Book Worm joined us in the cornering and demanded the contents of the bag. The smallest, for it was he carrying the bag, made some play of being unable to open it and tried to palm the thing off on to one of his mates. I think he'd slightly missed the point behind him being the bag carrier not that any of them were likely to be more than 12 years old.
When his mates declined to take the bag and open it he did what BBW was asking and from it she extracted a double Galaxy bar pack. They'd not got the vodka they were aiming for. BBW sent them off with a flea in their collective ear, the tallest though not necessarily the eldest almost in tears and protesting as he went that "it ain't nuffin' ta do wiff me".
Outside they rejoined their parents to whom they had (I suspect) to confess that they'd been rumbled and unable to snatch the booze.
Christmas is coming
Oh, yes it is. The first Father XMas of the year has been spotted (at Mohammed Fayed's tawdry emporium). You've been warned. Now get on with it. You know what Christmas is all about. That's right. Spending. No excuses now.
Progress
Arrived at work as the police van pulled away. No need to wonder what that might be about. Entered the office to find everyone including the Senior Frustrated Novelist and the Bolshie Book Worm flaked out and looking like they couldn't wait to clock out. BBW doesn't normally work Tuesdays and was inclined to tell anyone who would listen as well as everybody else that she'll Never Do Another Tuesday.
I never did get to hear about Sunday (or Monday for that matter) because things had already moved on too far. Shortly after 1pm, about an hour before I arrived, a female was detained attempting to leave the store with alcohol that she hadn't been paid for. The Ferret (I used to be the Ferret but after my sprint through Health and Beauty on Saturday I'm now The Greyhound) and RatFace caught her after she'd been spotted by Ratty behaving rather suspiciously (that is to say taking a bottle of alcohol and putting it in her shoulder bag rather than her shopping trolley).
Duly she was frogmarched by the Bolshie Book Worm up to the security suite. And after her identity and age were established proceedings were put on hold until a responsible adult arrived to hold her hand. That responsible adult was her mother and that poor woman had to sit through having her daughter's bag searched. As well as the alcohol a crack pipe was retrieved. The poor woman collapsed.
While waiting for the mother to turn up the child had been accompanied by The Ferret in whom she'd confided that she's already on remand (awaiting trial) though what for wasn't divulged. Things are not looking good for her in the sense that she's going away. If she's very, very lucky she'll end up in the hands of someone who'll (a) be prepared to take the time and (b) have the resources to draw on so that this child of 14 years of age gets the help she needs to sort herself out before she goes too far down a path that will lead to a grossly premature and very ugly death. If she is so very, very lucky then being locked up will be her salvation. Otherwise she won't make 25 which is about the life expectancy of a very early female homo sapiens sapiens.
We continue the struggle to 'progress' as a species. Mother nature has a glorious capacity to put us, and everything else, back in our box. Crack cocaine as mother nature's solution to uppity overly aspirational hairless hominids?
By the way this isn't someone fitting the stereotype 'scummy gutter brat' but the offspring of a pair of professionals. As her daughter was preparing to be led away in handcuffs the mother was heard to say something along the lines of "but we've given you everything" which just might be part of the problem.
I never did get to hear about Sunday (or Monday for that matter) because things had already moved on too far. Shortly after 1pm, about an hour before I arrived, a female was detained attempting to leave the store with alcohol that she hadn't been paid for. The Ferret (I used to be the Ferret but after my sprint through Health and Beauty on Saturday I'm now The Greyhound) and RatFace caught her after she'd been spotted by Ratty behaving rather suspiciously (that is to say taking a bottle of alcohol and putting it in her shoulder bag rather than her shopping trolley).
Duly she was frogmarched by the Bolshie Book Worm up to the security suite. And after her identity and age were established proceedings were put on hold until a responsible adult arrived to hold her hand. That responsible adult was her mother and that poor woman had to sit through having her daughter's bag searched. As well as the alcohol a crack pipe was retrieved. The poor woman collapsed.
While waiting for the mother to turn up the child had been accompanied by The Ferret in whom she'd confided that she's already on remand (awaiting trial) though what for wasn't divulged. Things are not looking good for her in the sense that she's going away. If she's very, very lucky she'll end up in the hands of someone who'll (a) be prepared to take the time and (b) have the resources to draw on so that this child of 14 years of age gets the help she needs to sort herself out before she goes too far down a path that will lead to a grossly premature and very ugly death. If she is so very, very lucky then being locked up will be her salvation. Otherwise she won't make 25 which is about the life expectancy of a very early female homo sapiens sapiens.
We continue the struggle to 'progress' as a species. Mother nature has a glorious capacity to put us, and everything else, back in our box. Crack cocaine as mother nature's solution to uppity overly aspirational hairless hominids?
By the way this isn't someone fitting the stereotype 'scummy gutter brat' but the offspring of a pair of professionals. As her daughter was preparing to be led away in handcuffs the mother was heard to say something along the lines of "but we've given you everything" which just might be part of the problem.
That bloody song
The offspring is still in the early stages of establishing an independent aesthetic, both visual and aural.
On the music side she's still quite keen on her motown, which she picked up from us, but she's discovered more slightly less ancient stuff like Madonna and some random current stuff that just sails clear over my head. Who are these people?
Unfortunately one of the songs she's very keen on and plays a lot is So Macho which was recorded by someone called Sinitta. This dance song is infuriatingly catchy, but that's not my big problem with her giving the damn thing the time of day. This song made it huge as that year's great Gay Anthem. He's gotta have big blue eyes, blah blah. That's not my problem with the song either.
No, my problem is that the guy who wrote the damn thing and who still rakes in royalties has turned his back on 'all that' and now uses the income stream to fund his anti-gay proselytising north of the border via the Scottish Christian Party of which he is leader. I'm really uncomfortable with the idea with some how I'm funding or supporting his hateful activities, but I can't put my foot down and insist that she stop playing the damn song. Apart from anything else I'm loath to dignify this ragtag bunch of nitwits and perverts with too much of my time.
It is scary to think that Hargeaves, standing as a candidate for his party in a by-election last year received 411 votes for a platform that included promotion of creationism and advocacy of a Mind Pollution Tax.
So I have to go to work with the bloody thing ringing in my ears. Grrr
On the music side she's still quite keen on her motown, which she picked up from us, but she's discovered more slightly less ancient stuff like Madonna and some random current stuff that just sails clear over my head. Who are these people?
Unfortunately one of the songs she's very keen on and plays a lot is So Macho which was recorded by someone called Sinitta. This dance song is infuriatingly catchy, but that's not my big problem with her giving the damn thing the time of day. This song made it huge as that year's great Gay Anthem. He's gotta have big blue eyes, blah blah. That's not my problem with the song either.
No, my problem is that the guy who wrote the damn thing and who still rakes in royalties has turned his back on 'all that' and now uses the income stream to fund his anti-gay proselytising north of the border via the Scottish Christian Party of which he is leader. I'm really uncomfortable with the idea with some how I'm funding or supporting his hateful activities, but I can't put my foot down and insist that she stop playing the damn song. Apart from anything else I'm loath to dignify this ragtag bunch of nitwits and perverts with too much of my time.
It is scary to think that Hargeaves, standing as a candidate for his party in a by-election last year received 411 votes for a platform that included promotion of creationism and advocacy of a Mind Pollution Tax.
So I have to go to work with the bloody thing ringing in my ears. Grrr
The Pink Palace
The tent has been up and brought back down (so that the off can watch Top Cat over a bowl of nutrition free breakfast cereal). It is The Pink Palace. When it came out of the box it emerged ground sheet side first, and that's black. Then the rest of it emerged, in wave after wave of pink nylon. And not just any pink, but a truly, deeply, madly Shocking Pink.
Poor dear. I mean her father. After putting the damn thing up he needed a drink, some paracetamol and a lie down. He's going to have to do this every day, too. What an excellent choice that tent was.
Poor dear. I mean her father. After putting the damn thing up he needed a drink, some paracetamol and a lie down. He's going to have to do this every day, too. What an excellent choice that tent was.
Where does the BBC find these people. They're debating the future of the jury system in talk back format with a couple of so called experts. Some one's rung in to suggest reverting the Good Old Days when property ownership was a basic qualification for the right to sit on a jury.
The caller's belief seems to be that by reintroducing such a qualification most of the riff-raff who are currently being empanelled and are prone to:
The caller's belief seems to be that by reintroducing such a qualification most of the riff-raff who are currently being empanelled and are prone to:
- falling asleep during evidence
- reaching snap judgements based on appearance
- sleeping in
- listening to an MP3 type device
and so on and so forth, would be excluded.
Hmm
That wasn't what startled me though. Talk back wouldn't work if it didn't give air time to idiots. But usually those idiots are the callers, while those in the studio tend to talk well informed sense even if one doesn't agree with their conclusions.
I was rather taken aback by a woman contributor in the studio who instantly linked property ownership/jury service to property ownership and the historic link to voting rights. Yes. Except she claimed that property ownership was the basis of voting rights not from the 18th to early 20th centuries but In The Middle Ages.
Oh dear.
Monday, 6 August 2007
Silence isn't always golden
Finished work on Saturday night, exhausted and exultant. Done. And at five pm that had looked a faint prospect. As I came down the road afterwards I realised that finally, belatedly, my blood pressure was starting to climb.
Sunday was the day the neighbors shouldered arms, in a manner of speaking and dealt on our behalf, but for their own benefit, with some of the mountain of crap that has accumulated. Now in our own defence not all of it is crap we've brought onto the property and dumped. A fair old proportion of it is either the detritus abandoned by the previous owners (a rudder, some piping, old cans of paint - and possibly worse, and other stuff too) or the consequences of the garden being a jungle when we moved in. That we've made little progress toward setting things right is a fair accusation. I put my hands up to it and the related charge that we've added to the accumulation of unattractive garden non-accoutrement's.
Up early despite having put away three bottles of Hobgoblin (after being a good girl for so many days in a row, damn it) I made a start. Several bags of sundry crap and the two old bicycles (ours) and the microwave (ours) and a few other bits and pieces have now gone the way of all things.
The garden hasn't been cleared but it looks a hell of a lot better. The hillock that I created when I was trying to dig out that post has now settled and is starting to green over. The stuff that is turning it green isn't exactly lawn, but it isn't nettle or bind weed or thistle or morning glory (our particular nightmare). Instead it is rather fluffy and gentle under foot and if I could live with the hillock I'd be inclined to leave things as they are and continue to allow nature to take its course.
If he'd thought yesterday was bad today was much worse. I was briskly efficient. Almost like a proper mother and housewife.
Off to town we (the offspring and I) went while he was at work. Our objective was to replace her dead tent so that she can go back to indoor camping. Also on my list were casual shoes for her camp next week, school shoes for the coming term, a couple of pairs of jeans (again for camp as well as general wear) and almost more important than all the rest some replacement 'stoppers' for the ends of the curtain rail across the patio sliding doors.
At some time the original stoppers went west, since which time there's been a serious chance of the 8ft drop and heavy (and lined) curtains sailing clear off the track if the curtains are opened with too much vigour.
In fact, thanks to Woolworths the trip cost less than it might have. The tent (an extravagantly pink confection) didn't cost much and I got the two pairs of jeans I wanted (plus a top as one was a set) from the reduced rail. Not only that but I spotted some net rail holders and realised they were Just What I Needed for the window by the front door. The school shoes were expensive, but they always are as I have never skimped in that department no matter how tough things have to be everywhere else.
I did stop and the chemist and by someClinique stuff for myself as well as a book, but the book was picked up in the discount store so it was a bit of a bargain. We had lunch at McDonalds which is shocking I know, but we don't have one in town and rarely get out so it doesn't happen too often.
We didn't beat him home so had to display our wares (I hid the skin care). He was duly impressed. I needed him to fit the curtain rail stoppers as I'm not tall enough. Then dragooned him into getting out into the garden.
Our council-provided 'green bin' is now absolutely choc-a-block. Not only have I cut back the forsythia but I've also gathered up some earlier garden waste and put that in too. Short of clambering up and doing like a grape-presser nothing more is going in that thing. So another couple of plastic sacks have been filled up. When I'm on a roll there ain't no stopping me. The paved area has been swept over, but for the bit that is continually wet because we have an overflow from the tank in the loft which his nibs won't go up and fix. I cut back the fuchsia which overhangs the paving. Not heavily but enough to make it look a lot better, and I pruned the 'thing' that overhangs the roses so that they are set off better.
I wasn't finished with him yet, either. I had him raising bicycle seats, doing carpentry and providing necessary support to me while I put up the new curtain in the window by the front door.
Still the fucker didn't bugger off to bed until after half past ten. What do I have to do.
Sunday was the day the neighbors shouldered arms, in a manner of speaking and dealt on our behalf, but for their own benefit, with some of the mountain of crap that has accumulated. Now in our own defence not all of it is crap we've brought onto the property and dumped. A fair old proportion of it is either the detritus abandoned by the previous owners (a rudder, some piping, old cans of paint - and possibly worse, and other stuff too) or the consequences of the garden being a jungle when we moved in. That we've made little progress toward setting things right is a fair accusation. I put my hands up to it and the related charge that we've added to the accumulation of unattractive garden non-accoutrement's.
Up early despite having put away three bottles of Hobgoblin (after being a good girl for so many days in a row, damn it) I made a start. Several bags of sundry crap and the two old bicycles (ours) and the microwave (ours) and a few other bits and pieces have now gone the way of all things.
The garden hasn't been cleared but it looks a hell of a lot better. The hillock that I created when I was trying to dig out that post has now settled and is starting to green over. The stuff that is turning it green isn't exactly lawn, but it isn't nettle or bind weed or thistle or morning glory (our particular nightmare). Instead it is rather fluffy and gentle under foot and if I could live with the hillock I'd be inclined to leave things as they are and continue to allow nature to take its course.
If he'd thought yesterday was bad today was much worse. I was briskly efficient. Almost like a proper mother and housewife.
Off to town we (the offspring and I) went while he was at work. Our objective was to replace her dead tent so that she can go back to indoor camping. Also on my list were casual shoes for her camp next week, school shoes for the coming term, a couple of pairs of jeans (again for camp as well as general wear) and almost more important than all the rest some replacement 'stoppers' for the ends of the curtain rail across the patio sliding doors.
At some time the original stoppers went west, since which time there's been a serious chance of the 8ft drop and heavy (and lined) curtains sailing clear off the track if the curtains are opened with too much vigour.
In fact, thanks to Woolworths the trip cost less than it might have. The tent (an extravagantly pink confection) didn't cost much and I got the two pairs of jeans I wanted (plus a top as one was a set) from the reduced rail. Not only that but I spotted some net rail holders and realised they were Just What I Needed for the window by the front door. The school shoes were expensive, but they always are as I have never skimped in that department no matter how tough things have to be everywhere else.
I did stop and the chemist and by someClinique stuff for myself as well as a book, but the book was picked up in the discount store so it was a bit of a bargain. We had lunch at McDonalds which is shocking I know, but we don't have one in town and rarely get out so it doesn't happen too often.
We didn't beat him home so had to display our wares (I hid the skin care). He was duly impressed. I needed him to fit the curtain rail stoppers as I'm not tall enough. Then dragooned him into getting out into the garden.
Our council-provided 'green bin' is now absolutely choc-a-block. Not only have I cut back the forsythia but I've also gathered up some earlier garden waste and put that in too. Short of clambering up and doing like a grape-presser nothing more is going in that thing. So another couple of plastic sacks have been filled up. When I'm on a roll there ain't no stopping me. The paved area has been swept over, but for the bit that is continually wet because we have an overflow from the tank in the loft which his nibs won't go up and fix. I cut back the fuchsia which overhangs the paving. Not heavily but enough to make it look a lot better, and I pruned the 'thing' that overhangs the roses so that they are set off better.
I wasn't finished with him yet, either. I had him raising bicycle seats, doing carpentry and providing necessary support to me while I put up the new curtain in the window by the front door.
Still the fucker didn't bugger off to bed until after half past ten. What do I have to do.
Saturday, 4 August 2007
Eventful afternoon shift
Today we had a plump pasty faced young (uniformed) security guard on duty but only until 8:00pm.
He had been asked to focus his efforts on the side entrance / exit which is the way the trolley loads of goods have been removed recently. In theory the doors are one way except for staff but most astute customers and all thieves know how to override the door and get it to open from the inside.
So quite what he was doing mooching about round the other side is a bit of a mystery. Then he went AWOL. We'd been having a hell on afternoon. Scales failing on the express checkouts were one thing, staff being granted leave at short notice we couldn't afford to have them take by people who should know better were something else. We had card 'issues', products mis-pricing and pretty much everything else you could imagine. My supervisor was on a checkout when a kid fell over and cut her leg.
While I'm trying to calm the girl we hear that a notorious piece of scum has come into the store. I leave the girl to the first aider hoping to get at the thief but I'm distracted by an underage operator needing my to supervise an alcohol sale. While I'm at his till waiting to deal with the next customer, who also wants alcohol, I spot my suspect at 3 o'clock. He's standing in front of the cheap vodka, holding his shirt collar up to hide his face and only making himself more conspicuous in the process.
As I watched he plucked a bottle from the shelf and walked very briskly down the length of the aisle. At the end he turned right and doubled back down the next aisle which happens to be what we call Health and Beauty (though the latter is a bit of a joke). As he got round the corner he started to push the bottle up under his jumper.
In the heat of the matter I either said "Oi, you've got to be joking!" or possibly "Oi, you've got to be fucking joking!". Either way I roared it with as much muscle as I could summon. He dumped the bottle in one of the display bins and legged it down the aisle with me in hot pursuit roaring at him to Get Out Now.
We left scattered and astonished customers in our wake. He vaulted one of the checkout barriers, I watched him leave with dignity (or more than I'd have been left with if I'd attempted to vault the barrier). Astonished staff wanted to know if I was alright but I was absolutely fun. Top notch in fact. Then I saw our lumbered security guard lumber in from a break outside.
Things were not quite over as the little shit bag had apparently taken off his shirt before attempting to re-enter the staff via the side entrance. That meant me jogging up and down the aisles making sure he had not in fact got back in. He hadn't. And he hadn't got his booze either. As long as he wasn't a decoy having me run about while someone else got away with the real target.
He had been asked to focus his efforts on the side entrance / exit which is the way the trolley loads of goods have been removed recently. In theory the doors are one way except for staff but most astute customers and all thieves know how to override the door and get it to open from the inside.
So quite what he was doing mooching about round the other side is a bit of a mystery. Then he went AWOL. We'd been having a hell on afternoon. Scales failing on the express checkouts were one thing, staff being granted leave at short notice we couldn't afford to have them take by people who should know better were something else. We had card 'issues', products mis-pricing and pretty much everything else you could imagine. My supervisor was on a checkout when a kid fell over and cut her leg.
While I'm trying to calm the girl we hear that a notorious piece of scum has come into the store. I leave the girl to the first aider hoping to get at the thief but I'm distracted by an underage operator needing my to supervise an alcohol sale. While I'm at his till waiting to deal with the next customer, who also wants alcohol, I spot my suspect at 3 o'clock. He's standing in front of the cheap vodka, holding his shirt collar up to hide his face and only making himself more conspicuous in the process.
As I watched he plucked a bottle from the shelf and walked very briskly down the length of the aisle. At the end he turned right and doubled back down the next aisle which happens to be what we call Health and Beauty (though the latter is a bit of a joke). As he got round the corner he started to push the bottle up under his jumper.
In the heat of the matter I either said "Oi, you've got to be joking!" or possibly "Oi, you've got to be fucking joking!". Either way I roared it with as much muscle as I could summon. He dumped the bottle in one of the display bins and legged it down the aisle with me in hot pursuit roaring at him to Get Out Now.
We left scattered and astonished customers in our wake. He vaulted one of the checkout barriers, I watched him leave with dignity (or more than I'd have been left with if I'd attempted to vault the barrier). Astonished staff wanted to know if I was alright but I was absolutely fun. Top notch in fact. Then I saw our lumbered security guard lumber in from a break outside.
Things were not quite over as the little shit bag had apparently taken off his shirt before attempting to re-enter the staff via the side entrance. That meant me jogging up and down the aisles making sure he had not in fact got back in. He hadn't. And he hadn't got his booze either. As long as he wasn't a decoy having me run about while someone else got away with the real target.
Refrigeration
This didn't happen to me. It happened to a colleague.
She took a call one morning this week from a lady with a question about our a product from within our ice-cream range. Had we changed the product, she wanted to know, only it didn't seem to freeze hard.
"No", my colleague patiently explained, "the product should freeze to a really very firm consistency".
"Ah", said the would be customer, "yes I have some Hovis bread in the freezer and that isn't hard, either".
"Perhaps there's a problem with your freezer?"
"Oh no. The peas are hard."
"The peas that are naturally hard?"
"Oh I see. Then you think that there might be a problem with my freezer?"
"Yes, I think that is a possibility."
She took a call one morning this week from a lady with a question about our a product from within our ice-cream range. Had we changed the product, she wanted to know, only it didn't seem to freeze hard.
"No", my colleague patiently explained, "the product should freeze to a really very firm consistency".
"Ah", said the would be customer, "yes I have some Hovis bread in the freezer and that isn't hard, either".
"Perhaps there's a problem with your freezer?"
"Oh no. The peas are hard."
"The peas that are naturally hard?"
"Oh I see. Then you think that there might be a problem with my freezer?"
"Yes, I think that is a possibility."
Accidents Do Happen
This island nation is currently holding its breath waiting for news of the small outbreak of Foot and Mouth Disease at a farm in plush Surrey (near Guildford, which is absolutely about as plush as it gets).
A leading UK virologist, the name of whom I've not yet caught, has dismissed evidence that the source of the outbreak is a nearby laboratory handling on the grounds that these things happen and pointed out that "accidents do happen".
Cheerful news. Do hope though, that they're not handling Spanish Flu or Ebola or anything really nasty and catastrophic or anything like that.
Now a conspiracy theorist would make hay of the fact that the private company operating on the laboratory site has ceased to manufacture the vaccine for the strain of F&M that has now been identified and created the link to the lab. I mean, if your a capitalist with your investment looking a bit limp what better way to give things a jump start than lay out a prima facie case for restarting the R&D and manufacture of the vaccine.
Incidentally there is another irony in this: the UK doesn't vaccinate against this viral disease but within the countries that are markets for its exports, markets that would be under threat if the national herd were to be routinely vaccinated, such vaccination is practiced. And the supplier of all the vaccine? Well, in part it is the UK.
A leading UK virologist, the name of whom I've not yet caught, has dismissed evidence that the source of the outbreak is a nearby laboratory handling on the grounds that these things happen and pointed out that "accidents do happen".
Cheerful news. Do hope though, that they're not handling Spanish Flu or Ebola or anything really nasty and catastrophic or anything like that.
Now a conspiracy theorist would make hay of the fact that the private company operating on the laboratory site has ceased to manufacture the vaccine for the strain of F&M that has now been identified and created the link to the lab. I mean, if your a capitalist with your investment looking a bit limp what better way to give things a jump start than lay out a prima facie case for restarting the R&D and manufacture of the vaccine.
Incidentally there is another irony in this: the UK doesn't vaccinate against this viral disease but within the countries that are markets for its exports, markets that would be under threat if the national herd were to be routinely vaccinated, such vaccination is practiced. And the supplier of all the vaccine? Well, in part it is the UK.
Ode to a Check out operator
With apologies, if necessary, to The Venerable Times I am herein reproducing [with attribution] a number of letters appearing in its Letters to the Editor section this week.
I missed the original correspondence, but it can be pieced together from this response under the title Blank Checkout:
Among the staff who are not still students there's an architect who took redundancy and uses his checkout earnings to supplement his slowly growing career as an exhibiting photographer.
One of our staff did law (but never practiced), another economics and history and joined us after being made redundant by one of the big name global accountancy firms. There's an IT graduate who can't get work and we've only just lost someone with a degree in criminology to the local constabulary after a two year wait to pursue her chosen career in the police. No doubt among the others there's a smattering of tertiary academic qualifications to be unearthed.
As to the cauliflower, well in my experience operators and other individuals who've never ventured into the kitchen except to take something out of the freezer and stick it in the the microwave wouldn't recognise a cauliflower if it sat up and started singing its name.
The plain fact is that all too many Brits are crappy cooks with only a passing acquaintaince with the raw ingredients that go into the finished products they eat. This will seem an outrageous assertion to the denizens of London's finer restaurants who not only know what a cauliflower is but can request it in French, in which language it does of course taste much better (and cost a whole lot more too).
Our kiddies are mostly students and mostly reasonably bright. One's reading mathematics at one of the better universities, others are students of economics, history, philosophy and other such heavy weight academic subjects.
I missed the original correspondence, but it can be pieced together from this response under the title Blank Checkout:
Inevitably, this spirited defence of the country's army of put apon Supermarket Checkout Persons has elicited further support of its central contention which is that they are not all muppets. Two appeared in today's edition, under the heading Check this out and one of them supported the conntention:Sir, Once again in your pages I find someone surprised that a "supermarket
checkout person" (letter, July 25) knows something - in this case that the
Battle of Hastings occurred in 1066.I am a "supermarket checkout person". I have a BA in anthropology and have
papers published in scientific journals. Most of my colleagues have degrees or
some qualifications that they are using or have used in their "real" carer,
except for the young people, most of whom are still at university, or are doing
their A levels in order to go to university (and I don't mean for media studies).
We know what happened in 1066 and a few other things.We are not here because we are unqualified to do anything else. We are here
because we choose to be, for a few hours a week, because we have small children,
or elderly or disabled relatives who need our care, so we don't have time at the
moment to pursue our careers. Some of us work a couple of evenings a week as
well as having a "proper" job because we're paying school fees or trying to
lessen the financial burden of our children at university.If you see one of us with a blank expression, it's not that we're not
thinking, it's that we're thinking of Anasazi trade routes, or string theory, or
modern Japanese cinema, or cabbages and kings. So would you mind not being so
patronising.M Nutt
Bedford
Sir After I retired from teaching, I worked for a few hours as aand
"supermarket checkout person" (letter, August 2). I, a mere MA, sat between a
chemist and a biologist, both PhDs.
Terry McIntee
Kendal, Cumbria
Sir, The checkout person with a BA in anthropology may well be thinking ofThe truth lies somewhere within all this, a thread that could still have legs in it. We have at least one PhD amongst our hundred employees, and I suspect fewer than 1 in 100 of the general population has such a qualification.
Anasazi trade routes, but I don't think the girl who served me was when she
looked quizzically at my cauliflower and asked me what it was.
P. Cragg
E Sussex
Among the staff who are not still students there's an architect who took redundancy and uses his checkout earnings to supplement his slowly growing career as an exhibiting photographer.
One of our staff did law (but never practiced), another economics and history and joined us after being made redundant by one of the big name global accountancy firms. There's an IT graduate who can't get work and we've only just lost someone with a degree in criminology to the local constabulary after a two year wait to pursue her chosen career in the police. No doubt among the others there's a smattering of tertiary academic qualifications to be unearthed.
As to the cauliflower, well in my experience operators and other individuals who've never ventured into the kitchen except to take something out of the freezer and stick it in the the microwave wouldn't recognise a cauliflower if it sat up and started singing its name.
The plain fact is that all too many Brits are crappy cooks with only a passing acquaintaince with the raw ingredients that go into the finished products they eat. This will seem an outrageous assertion to the denizens of London's finer restaurants who not only know what a cauliflower is but can request it in French, in which language it does of course taste much better (and cost a whole lot more too).
Our kiddies are mostly students and mostly reasonably bright. One's reading mathematics at one of the better universities, others are students of economics, history, philosophy and other such heavy weight academic subjects.
Doesn't mean they wouldn't know the meaning of the word work. Doesn't mean they have a refined concept of customer service.
But they're not actually stupid. They'd just rather be students poring over their books and in what time is free hanging out with their mates before they get too old and have to worry about mortgages and insurance and council tax bills. Throughout most of human history we've gone out to work at or about the time we reached double figures in terms of our age. We then worked hard and pretty constantly. In the years since the second world war a generation and a half had the luxury of either learning a trade and securing a life-long income stream of lounging about at university for a few years before landing a well paid job that provide ample opportunities to look down upon and disparage those who hadn't pursued the academic route.
In the desperated determination of socialists to undermine the system that created the latter we've lost the lot. In forcing as near as possible absolutely everyone to stay in study of at least a quasi academic nature for as long as possible, we've lost the trained and trade practitioners. It is hardly possible to become qualified at anything without pursuing an academic course of one kind or another. The truth is a whole raft of people are not suited to such training and end up in untrained/unqualifed work of such low pay that state handouts are needed.
The knack of this government has been to up the level of support available, making it next to impossible that any recipient, without qualifications, training or prospects to reject the benefactor at the polls.
On the other hand academic qualifications have been so debased, in order to make them more widely accessible, that this country now struggles to create anyone with a credible academic portfolio. No smug middle classes, no solid self-supporting working class. And all sorts working behind the till at your local supermarket.
Friday, 3 August 2007
Miami Vice Ride Again
In response to the recent spate of thefts internal security have sent out the big guns. Two burly blokes to patrol the aisles in pursuit of those pesky thieves. Two of them. Both enormous. Both clearly from out of town.
It was vastly entertaining to watch the pair of them attempt to be inconspicuous as they mooched up and down the store, lingering over the puy lentils and sun dried tomatoes, probably as much the customers and would be thieves as it was to the staff. It was less entertaining to have to watch them sunning themselves outside the main entrance for long stretches of time while the sun just happened to be out, shooting the breeze.
Then towards the end of their stint they approached the Bolshi Book Worm to make a confession. They'd missed one. As evidence they proffered an open box of plasters from which a young woman under surveillance had abstracted one. No police report into the incident of the Stolen Sticking Plaster is to be raised.
No more than five minutes after their departure one of our staff observed a young man help himself to some kind of slice from the hot food counter, mooch about the store for long enough to consume the entire thing. As he slipped between the checkouts he did at least have the common decency to deposit the wrapper in the rubbish bin. When confronted he shrugged his shoulders and admitted he hadn't paid for it.
Crockett and Tibbs were already well away and in no time so was our freeloader.
It was vastly entertaining to watch the pair of them attempt to be inconspicuous as they mooched up and down the store, lingering over the puy lentils and sun dried tomatoes, probably as much the customers and would be thieves as it was to the staff. It was less entertaining to have to watch them sunning themselves outside the main entrance for long stretches of time while the sun just happened to be out, shooting the breeze.
Then towards the end of their stint they approached the Bolshi Book Worm to make a confession. They'd missed one. As evidence they proffered an open box of plasters from which a young woman under surveillance had abstracted one. No police report into the incident of the Stolen Sticking Plaster is to be raised.
No more than five minutes after their departure one of our staff observed a young man help himself to some kind of slice from the hot food counter, mooch about the store for long enough to consume the entire thing. As he slipped between the checkouts he did at least have the common decency to deposit the wrapper in the rubbish bin. When confronted he shrugged his shoulders and admitted he hadn't paid for it.
Crockett and Tibbs were already well away and in no time so was our freeloader.
Thursday, 2 August 2007
Breaking Camp for the last time
Sadly or otherwise this is likely to be my last report on indoor camping activities. One of the two poles, which had started to split a couple of days ago has now gone completely. The Great Fat So and So was in a grim angry mood when I walked in from work tonight. Rather than be philosophical he's outraged, but mostly that the Offspring didn't tell him about this before he'd started to put the damn thing up.
Also the cat isn't responsible for the shredded roll mat. That's down to poor quality. And the sleeping bag really isn't good enough either. What a rip off. He's going back to the store, which I think was the local Co-op to try and get his money back. I might see if I can pick up a new one inZVille.
I'm having to trek across country next week to get the offspring what supplies she needs for her week away at camp starting Sunday. No reason why I can't pick a tent while I'm at it. Indeed such a purchase would seem entirely appropriate.
Probably loads more that hasn't stuck or is hiding from sight right now. My tummy hurts and I can hardly keep my eyes open after lugging boxes of wine about while the shop floor staff dithered. Ah, that was something else I wanted to get off my chest.
Also the cat isn't responsible for the shredded roll mat. That's down to poor quality. And the sleeping bag really isn't good enough either. What a rip off. He's going back to the store, which I think was the local Co-op to try and get his money back. I might see if I can pick up a new one inZVille.
I'm having to trek across country next week to get the offspring what supplies she needs for her week away at camp starting Sunday. No reason why I can't pick a tent while I'm at it. Indeed such a purchase would seem entirely appropriate.
Probably loads more that hasn't stuck or is hiding from sight right now. My tummy hurts and I can hardly keep my eyes open after lugging boxes of wine about while the shop floor staff dithered. Ah, that was something else I wanted to get off my chest.
Stinkyville Revisited
Soppy as I am I am, in general, opposed to the death penalty. But I'm prepared to make exceptions. The farmer is one of them. The whole town stinks. It got into the air intake and was distributed throughout the store by the Air Con. That the pig shit he uses was better diluted today is hardly mitigating circumstances.
Folks will talk
The Big Swinging Dick has asked another favour of me. He still owes me at least one bottle arising from our last jolly to XVille. Now he wants me to go with him again for the follow up meeting HR have asked us to have with the defendant; effectively a sentencing hearing since we're to deliver our judgement. All this is a lot of fuss to go to in order to let someone know that we've effectively decided to do nothing and give the whole scenario further time to develop.
He's offered a cup of coffee, but I'm going to hold out for the plonk even if that does me falling off the wagon I've just about got my self securely strapped onto.
He's offered a cup of coffee, but I'm going to hold out for the plonk even if that does me falling off the wagon I've just about got my self securely strapped onto.
Rodent count
The rodent count around about has plummeted overnight. Last year the cat tended to bring his catches into the house, usually still alive. Usually he surrendered his playmates and I was able to release them. He voluntarily gave up the wood pigeon when he discovered that he and his fat playmate couldn't fit through the cat flap at the same time, particularly with the playmate going in sideways while flapping its wings and jerking its legs about.
This year we've been corpse free. Until last night. He left his deceased friends in a little mouse trail up the path to the main road. Four of them in total. Sweet little field mice and one shrew.
Murderer.
This year we've been corpse free. Until last night. He left his deceased friends in a little mouse trail up the path to the main road. Four of them in total. Sweet little field mice and one shrew.
Murderer.
In conclusion
Sir Ian Blair, Commissioner, made inaccurate public statements. He didn't do it deliberately. He did it accidentally. He employs fools and idiots who didn't keep him properly informed particularly as to what was not known. So that's okay.
Also allowance has to be made for the "heightened atmosphere". His comments in interviews were "ill-advised". Errors of judgement were made, but they were not deliberate (??!!??) so that's okay too. It seems Blair is after all fit to do this job and off the hook.
Curiously under other circumstances ignorance is deemed not to be a defence in law. And it does occur to me that if the same standard of latitude were granted to everyone under investigation or on trial for suspected wrong-doing this country's prison overcrowding problem could be solved almost over night. There's a message.
The statement has proceeded to put Blair's underling's out to dry, left swinging in the wind. What a fucking charmless disgrace. Where does the buck stop? Not that Blair's deputy is guiltless. It just makes me sick that Blair's getting the white wash while the deputy is tarred and feathered.
None of this could possibly be any comfort to the family of the Brazilian chap who was cut down by some of London's finest for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Left unrecognisable on the floor of a London underground train carriage. Identifiable only by DNA.
If this means nothing then you can read about Jean Charles de Menezes here at the BBC.
Also allowance has to be made for the "heightened atmosphere". His comments in interviews were "ill-advised". Errors of judgement were made, but they were not deliberate (??!!??) so that's okay too. It seems Blair is after all fit to do this job and off the hook.
Curiously under other circumstances ignorance is deemed not to be a defence in law. And it does occur to me that if the same standard of latitude were granted to everyone under investigation or on trial for suspected wrong-doing this country's prison overcrowding problem could be solved almost over night. There's a message.
The statement has proceeded to put Blair's underling's out to dry, left swinging in the wind. What a fucking charmless disgrace. Where does the buck stop? Not that Blair's deputy is guiltless. It just makes me sick that Blair's getting the white wash while the deputy is tarred and feathered.
None of this could possibly be any comfort to the family of the Brazilian chap who was cut down by some of London's finest for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Left unrecognisable on the floor of a London underground train carriage. Identifiable only by DNA.
If this means nothing then you can read about Jean Charles de Menezes here at the BBC.
No Bull
In the furore over alcohol and is deleterious social and health effects, on nicotine and its impact on health and the NHS budget the debate has from time to time shifted to the unfairness of circumscribing access of fundamentally law abiding British subjects to these substances when neither of these is the most ubiquitous, nefarious, subtly addictive product on the shelves of British supermarkets.
Those who are more concerned for consistency than traditional values of freedom of choice will be delighted therefore to learn that the first tentative steps towards a level playing field are being taken; sale of a certain product containing caffeine is now to be controlled. The number of cans of this drink that can be purchased at one time will be limited and restricted to those aged 16 or more. This isn't a development in law but in the policy of one retailer. Where one goes others will follow.
Be prepared to produce your driving licence (or National Identity Card) before you purchase that skinny latte.
Those who are more concerned for consistency than traditional values of freedom of choice will be delighted therefore to learn that the first tentative steps towards a level playing field are being taken; sale of a certain product containing caffeine is now to be controlled. The number of cans of this drink that can be purchased at one time will be limited and restricted to those aged 16 or more. This isn't a development in law but in the policy of one retailer. Where one goes others will follow.
Be prepared to produce your driving licence (or National Identity Card) before you purchase that skinny latte.
This week's top excuse for a piss up
Last night we had an unscheduled visit by Smelly Lady and her husband. She's in her seventies and he's at least 80. They're well spoken and, from a distance, can look very well turned out. Up close (if you dare) you can see that the clothes are worn and far from clean.
That isn't the problem
The problem is that this lady due to an unspecified medical condition smells astonishingly, appallingly awful. This smell puts this customer in a category of her own quite separate from the old men and woman who smell of stale urine - and we've quite enough of them, or the obese who smell as though they've got folds of flesh near their backside that haven't be properly cleaned out in years.
I've been told that this is gangrene but that doesn't make sense. Untreated, un-removed gangrene is lethal, so it has to be something else. What ever it is, and I've also been told it is some kind of chronic and untreatable bacterial skin problem, the result is a stench unlike anything else I've encountered. Pig shit has got nothing on it. She can be smelled aisles away. This stench hovers about her and walking into it is like walking into a wall of smell.
I was caught by her down the drink aisle last night. She has good days and bad days and happily she didn't hum to strongly. She wanted a bottle of our own-brand brandy that was out of stock on the shelves. I legged it to the booze warehouse in search of a bottle for her. No doing. Not in the 700ml or the 1 litre. The two kiddies up stairs shifting boxes of booze from one shelf to another in lieu of doing anything useful averred they'd not seen a box of the stuff anywhere on any of their cages of stock.
I had to go back and tell her no deal. By the time I found her she'd got tired and taken a seat on one of our kick stools. I'd rather hoped to make a quick get away but she wanted to talk. She explained why she wanted the brandy. What you do, she said, is take a small piece of Stilton (cheese) then a measure of brandy followed by a measure of port [I may have the order wrong, here]. The effect is mildly antibiotic, and should be dose should be repeated - presumably until either you're cured or you fall over insensate.
There may or may not be something in this, but I still have to say I think this the absolutely the finest excuse for getting pissed of this or perhaps any other week. Well done, ma'am.
That isn't the problem
The problem is that this lady due to an unspecified medical condition smells astonishingly, appallingly awful. This smell puts this customer in a category of her own quite separate from the old men and woman who smell of stale urine - and we've quite enough of them, or the obese who smell as though they've got folds of flesh near their backside that haven't be properly cleaned out in years.
I've been told that this is gangrene but that doesn't make sense. Untreated, un-removed gangrene is lethal, so it has to be something else. What ever it is, and I've also been told it is some kind of chronic and untreatable bacterial skin problem, the result is a stench unlike anything else I've encountered. Pig shit has got nothing on it. She can be smelled aisles away. This stench hovers about her and walking into it is like walking into a wall of smell.
I was caught by her down the drink aisle last night. She has good days and bad days and happily she didn't hum to strongly. She wanted a bottle of our own-brand brandy that was out of stock on the shelves. I legged it to the booze warehouse in search of a bottle for her. No doing. Not in the 700ml or the 1 litre. The two kiddies up stairs shifting boxes of booze from one shelf to another in lieu of doing anything useful averred they'd not seen a box of the stuff anywhere on any of their cages of stock.
I had to go back and tell her no deal. By the time I found her she'd got tired and taken a seat on one of our kick stools. I'd rather hoped to make a quick get away but she wanted to talk. She explained why she wanted the brandy. What you do, she said, is take a small piece of Stilton (cheese) then a measure of brandy followed by a measure of port [I may have the order wrong, here]. The effect is mildly antibiotic, and should be dose should be repeated - presumably until either you're cured or you fall over insensate.
There may or may not be something in this, but I still have to say I think this the absolutely the finest excuse for getting pissed of this or perhaps any other week. Well done, ma'am.
Something I've just got to say
"All the streets look the same in Riga." A comment of a caller to a debate on Brits abroad. Listening to this as I was preparing to get this off my chest, and thinking it timely, I offer it up.
Last week's jolly to XVille in the company of the Big Swinging Dick granted me a lot greater exposure to his sparkling personality than any circumstances hitherto. At one point we caught a glimpse of someone he recognised; our auditor, who is a refugee from the coal face. According to BSD The Auditor had a brother who emigrated to South Africa some years ago and set up his own retail business. It all came to a tragic end when some "Piccaninnis come (sic) in and machine gunned him in the course of the robbery." Bloody hell, for all sorts of reasons.
Last week's jolly to XVille in the company of the Big Swinging Dick granted me a lot greater exposure to his sparkling personality than any circumstances hitherto. At one point we caught a glimpse of someone he recognised; our auditor, who is a refugee from the coal face. According to BSD The Auditor had a brother who emigrated to South Africa some years ago and set up his own retail business. It all came to a tragic end when some "Piccaninnis come (sic) in and machine gunned him in the course of the robbery." Bloody hell, for all sorts of reasons.
Wednesday, 1 August 2007
A stitch in time.
Plod have been in and out like the bird on some cheap and nasty Swiss Clock today, in the aftermath of our great spate.
It takes a thief a minute to grab something and get out.
On those few occasions when the thief is spotted we and the County's finest are then tied up in knots for hours. Viewing CCTV footage, gathering or giving interviews, filing reports. Then the so-and-so gets called to court where, if he or she should happpen to turn up the magistrate will slap down an £80 fine that doesn't even begin to cover the costs incurred.
They might, just might, if they offend and are convicted repeatedly eventually find themselves kicked out of their social housing but then they only end up on the street having to commit more socially damaging crimes to support themselves or some other Housing Association has to take them in.
As often as not they don't bother to turn up at court. They're already drawing social welfare so they don't have the funds to pay any fine that does happen to be handed down.
This is insanity. We can't name and shame them. In fact our capacity to institute any kind of deterrent is severely restricted. We can't lay a hand on them when they do offend lest we find ourselves in receipt of a charge of assault.
The couple I was tipped off about are to receive a visit from the Constabulary tomorrow morning. Very early tomorrow morning. This sort of he-man style action doesn't happen when Plod are after those coyly named ShopLifters. No, they're obviously after them for something more serious and it relates not just to us but the other two leading retailers in town.
In the mean time Scabby Lou's mate has had her flat gone over by Drug Squad or whatever they're called these days. Scabby Lou's mate spent a year and a half locked up with her two children in an apartment in France somewhere by psychotic boyfriend. Mother and children were eventually rescued by the maternal grandmother who effectively abducted them and smuggled them back into the UK. The older child, when she started school, was still unable to speak and spent her early school days cowering beneath a desk miaowing like a cat.
What possible chance do any of these people have. It's all very well for the David Davies of this world to demand we get tougher on social delinquency, but when you look at the almost vacant shell of a human being that is Scabby Lou what possibly could there be to come down tough on?
It takes a thief a minute to grab something and get out.
On those few occasions when the thief is spotted we and the County's finest are then tied up in knots for hours. Viewing CCTV footage, gathering or giving interviews, filing reports. Then the so-and-so gets called to court where, if he or she should happpen to turn up the magistrate will slap down an £80 fine that doesn't even begin to cover the costs incurred.
They might, just might, if they offend and are convicted repeatedly eventually find themselves kicked out of their social housing but then they only end up on the street having to commit more socially damaging crimes to support themselves or some other Housing Association has to take them in.
As often as not they don't bother to turn up at court. They're already drawing social welfare so they don't have the funds to pay any fine that does happen to be handed down.
This is insanity. We can't name and shame them. In fact our capacity to institute any kind of deterrent is severely restricted. We can't lay a hand on them when they do offend lest we find ourselves in receipt of a charge of assault.
The couple I was tipped off about are to receive a visit from the Constabulary tomorrow morning. Very early tomorrow morning. This sort of he-man style action doesn't happen when Plod are after those coyly named ShopLifters. No, they're obviously after them for something more serious and it relates not just to us but the other two leading retailers in town.
In the mean time Scabby Lou's mate has had her flat gone over by Drug Squad or whatever they're called these days. Scabby Lou's mate spent a year and a half locked up with her two children in an apartment in France somewhere by psychotic boyfriend. Mother and children were eventually rescued by the maternal grandmother who effectively abducted them and smuggled them back into the UK. The older child, when she started school, was still unable to speak and spent her early school days cowering beneath a desk miaowing like a cat.
What possible chance do any of these people have. It's all very well for the David Davies of this world to demand we get tougher on social delinquency, but when you look at the almost vacant shell of a human being that is Scabby Lou what possibly could there be to come down tough on?
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