D
Damini
Guest
Today was a mind bogglingly bad seething cess pit of a day. For starters, it began with a 7.00 alarm call. And another at 7.30. And another at 7.40... Arrive at work, 8 a.m. with wild looking hair and my shirt on inside out.
Work is generally 9 hours of utter tedium, loosely bound by the fact that I'm earning a whopping £4.80 for every 60 minutes of my life it devours (minus tax...) but today was especially so, because I am not trusted with any autonomy, my fun jobs for today included - colouring in, walking to a postbox, licking envelopes, and putting things in alphabetical order. HUZZAH!!
Then Kenny phones me; despite our landladys promise that, since she is selling the house out from underneath us despite promising she wouldn't do so, that we would hear first how much it is and have first right of refusal, our house is actually already on the general market and some guy is coming round to have a look at it on friday. Oh, and its at 95,000, some 10,000 higher than she said it would be. So I storm home for lunch, all full of growls...
Eat on ok if slightly over priced sandwich, drink some iron bru, feel slightly calmer, leave house to get in car to go back to work...
Leave keys in house.
I then proceed for about five minutes to jump up and down in a pitiful way beneath the bathroom window that is slightly ajar in the vain hope that a) I might be able to reach the window and b) if I do so, I'll be able to dislocate every bone in my body, shrink my spine, lose two stone and fit through a window the size of a shoe box.
This doesn't happen. Instead I jump about a bit, looking a bit crap.
It begins to rain.
I give up.
I then have to *run* back to work, and as I phone them to say I'll be late, I get treated to hysterical laughter. Because, I'm the *special* one.
Finally arrive at work, very red faced and soaked, get laughed at by everyone again, and then...
I get a Counselling Session
My inate inability to type in twelve digit numbers every time an item doesn't scan on the tills seems to have annoyed the mighty ones. I get treated to an explanation of why produce can't sell hypothetical grapes (don't ask, honestly) and then I have to sign a piece of paper to acknowledge I've been told off.
Then a man threw a cabbage at me.
Then I went home.
Today was teh pooey.
Work is generally 9 hours of utter tedium, loosely bound by the fact that I'm earning a whopping £4.80 for every 60 minutes of my life it devours (minus tax...) but today was especially so, because I am not trusted with any autonomy, my fun jobs for today included - colouring in, walking to a postbox, licking envelopes, and putting things in alphabetical order. HUZZAH!!
Then Kenny phones me; despite our landladys promise that, since she is selling the house out from underneath us despite promising she wouldn't do so, that we would hear first how much it is and have first right of refusal, our house is actually already on the general market and some guy is coming round to have a look at it on friday. Oh, and its at 95,000, some 10,000 higher than she said it would be. So I storm home for lunch, all full of growls...
Eat on ok if slightly over priced sandwich, drink some iron bru, feel slightly calmer, leave house to get in car to go back to work...
Leave keys in house.
I then proceed for about five minutes to jump up and down in a pitiful way beneath the bathroom window that is slightly ajar in the vain hope that a) I might be able to reach the window and b) if I do so, I'll be able to dislocate every bone in my body, shrink my spine, lose two stone and fit through a window the size of a shoe box.
This doesn't happen. Instead I jump about a bit, looking a bit crap.
It begins to rain.
I give up.
I then have to *run* back to work, and as I phone them to say I'll be late, I get treated to hysterical laughter. Because, I'm the *special* one.
Finally arrive at work, very red faced and soaked, get laughed at by everyone again, and then...
I get a Counselling Session
My inate inability to type in twelve digit numbers every time an item doesn't scan on the tills seems to have annoyed the mighty ones. I get treated to an explanation of why produce can't sell hypothetical grapes (don't ask, honestly) and then I have to sign a piece of paper to acknowledge I've been told off.Then a man threw a cabbage at me.
Then I went home.
Today was teh pooey.
