Tuesday, 31 August 2010

Aw, you're so cute you little monging fuckhead, you.

Why do people have babies if they don't want, or even like, them? A girl I went to school with will soon be popping one out along with the other 94 people in our year and her Facebook status yesterday was as follows (and I shit you not, I have not changed even one word in this for comedic effect):


"sum kids drive me fucking mental little monging fuckheads". 


Since when was 'monging' even a word? I'm not entirely sure what it means, but I'm guessing it doesn't mean anything along the lines of 'delightful'. She can join the 'I hate my child' club, along with a woman who came into work yesterday and asked us in all seriousness if we wanted any of hers (she had about forty). She probably wasn't serious though, she was off her face on crystal meth at the time, bless her. 

Most people would be shocked at getting offered a child at work, but after spending a few weeks behind our counter it would seem relatively commonplace. I was yesterday graced with the presence of a man who had 'Malcom 4 Lynne' tattooed across his bicep. I'm not the most fashionable of people, but I can tell when something looks shit. And that did. I wouldn't be surprised if he had 'Grandma 4eva' in a loveheart across his calf. I am happiest at work when I am by myself behind the counter and there are no customers, leaving me to do whatever I want. Well, within reason. Yesterday's Radio2 playlist appeared to be made up entirely of songs seemingly sung by the Von Trapp children and, just as I was about snap the underwire on my bra and impale myself upon it in a last attempt at escape, the Von Trapps suddenly ceased and were replaced by hits from WestEnd musicals. Not exactly what I'd have ideally chosen, but at least they were slightly better. After half an hour or so I was definitely deemed crazy by my employers as they rounded the corner just as I was bursting into the chorus of 'Don't Cry For Me, Argentina'... That wasn't the worst of it either, after 'Any Dream Will Do' came on, I was stuck with "I close my eyes" on a constant loop in my head for the entire night as that was the only line I knew. I now understand mental torture. I definitely prefer my side job of photographing for Bradford Industrial Museum as the only human contact I have to put up with is occasionally speaking to a mill owner. Although, I'm sure they think I'm crazy also as I found some grasshoppers the other day and was in the process of photographing them when I looked up to see the mill owner watching me. He was probably confused as I told him I would be photographing the mill yet here I was, my face 10 inches from the ground, occasionally prodding a blackberry bush with my the side of my foot...


On a plus note, I went out on Saturday for the first time since I've been home. Not just out of my house (although that is usually an achievement in itself), but actually out with my friends, downing pints of cheap cider and skanking round the bar checking if any drunk rich people have dropped any money (we were in Saltaire, so money value increases and the game is played to a level of intensity you just don't find in Bradford). My night got even better (and cheaper) when my mum rang to say she was going home from a party and would I like a lift home? I obviously jumped at the chance and got in the car only to be greeted by what appeared to be a worryingly intoxicated Lulu. I soon realised it wasn't actually Lulu (disappointing) but one of my mum's friends from work, dressed as Lulu but genuinely drunk, who slurred to the car that I had once stalked her round my work. (In all honesty, it is true, but her mum was my teacher at primary school and I was excited - what's a girl to do?!). One day, I'm going to find someone who doesn't think I'm crazy. Watch this space.

Thursday, 19 August 2010

Name the goat competition? You've got to be kid-ding!

Slowly, but surely, full-time work is tearing away at my soul, forcing me to watch as small chunks are gradually ripped away with every 8am start and every 8pm finish with the additional, 'Can I have a cornish pasty, hunnybunny'. (No word of a lie, someone actually said that to me). I've even taking to getting up early on my days off so I don't waste them as they are something of a rarity and in the past five weeks I've only had about four, one of which I accidentally slept through because me and Peter stayed up all night playing chess and MarioKart. The sheer ecstasy I feel at currently being in the lead in our chess tournament simply expresses how little is happening in my life right now. Well, unless you count my continuous run of wins whilst playing Hangman at work (even though one of mine was unfairly dismissed - how is 'k-a-r-m-a  k-a-r-m-a  k-a-r-m-a  k-a-r-m-a  k-a-r-m-a  c-h-a-m-e-l-e-o-n' not a real Hangman?!). Clearly, the days at work have been moving relatively slowly - last week we spent an entire hour discussing Mel C's solo career, and after that topic had worn thin we moved onto celebrity lookalikes. Without trying to sound boastful, I'm pretty sure I won that also with this my Christina Aguilera/Faye from Steps comparison. Uncanny. Highlights of this week have also included my entering a goat naming competition (Juliet for a girl, Sebastian for a boy - if I don't win, someone's going down) and choking on a FruitPolo as I try and talk to a customer whilst simultaneously attempting to disguise the fact that I am eating said FruitPolo. Embarrassing, painful and, had the next customer not been wearing an extremely amusing 'Save The Ring-Tailed Lima' t-shirt, potentially shift-ruining. We've also started a new game which involves monitoring a steadily rotting tomato. I wish there was more to it, but sadly, that is the only aim of the game: see how mouldy the tomato gets before the cleaner notices it and throws it away. I think this somewhat describes the type of establishment I work in, along with the list of rules on the wall, including: Do not lick your fingers whilst working. God help us. 
The trouble with working somewhere within a two mile radius of your house is you're bound to run into someone you know every once in a while. Annoyingly, this person rarely comes in the form of someone you actually like, as was shown by this week's surprise guest: a girl I knew from primary school who once threatened to 'bray' me. I'm not entirely sure how she thought she was going to do that, seeing as she was in year 5 and I was in year 6, obviously making me superior. And bigger. (Plus, my mum was best mates with all the teachers, so they all had my back...). Anyway, her appearance neatly coincided with my mother's uprooting of all our old Famous Five books, leading me to have an entire week of reading them and reverting back to exactly how I was in primary school, give or take a full-time job or two. Reading Famous Five at twenty definitely brings with it a new perspective that I, understandably, overlooked as a child. For example, the notion that George will most likely grow up to be either a) gay, or b) Rizzo from Grease, and that Julian was obviously very anally retentive as a child... It's worrying how, or perhaps why, I have started to pick up on these characteristics, but as I say - life is moving very slowly.