Work has been relatively interesting this week, mainly due to the arrival of our new ticket system. Not such a big deal, I know, but to the hoards of 70 year olds that make up the majority of our customers, it is a huge change - and not a welcome one. Despite the thoughts of whoever decided to install this chaotic new addition to my life, it does not work well. Instead of simply shouting out the numbers to have an obliging customer stroll up to the counter with matching ticket, it mainly consists of all of us running up and down the counter shouting, "are you number 53? Are you number 53? Who's got 53?" only to find that the next ticket is actually 64 due to the fact that a hoard of annoying children have walked past the machine, each in turn taking a ticket and then proceeding to laugh as they watch the entire deli staff fall to pieces. The customers are not taking well to it either - the first couple of people I told were so outraged that some of them actually bypassed the counter altogether, mumbling angrily to themselves about how they only wanted a pork pie anyway and deciding that the strenuous task of taking a ticket from the machine would be too high a price to pay for one. Then there are the "well, it wasn't there last week!" people, who continue to stare blankly at you as if expecting a full account of how, when, and why this annoyance appeared in their lives. After the tenth person to say this, I was strongly resisting the urge to snap, "well it's there now" and stare just as blankly back. I refrained, however, as I felt it would be treading on thin ice after having already been told off by the manager once that week already. I was hauled into the office and told that I am spending too much time talking and telling stories and it would be appreciated if I 'calmed down' a little bit and basically wound my neck in. I don't think my internal argument that I was just trying to raise morale would have been appreciated. (To be fair, the other day I did spend 15 minutes off counter talking to the person running the children's bun decorating table and playing with the helium balloon machine, so I can sort of see where they're coming from). I did feel a bit like a naughty school kid when I got told off though - even more so when I got home later in the week to find my mother fuming over the fact that I had dyed my hair red in her newly decorated bathroom. I didn't get a speck of it anywhere, but apparently The Great Hairdye Disaster of '09 is still fresh in her mind. (This basically consisted of my sister running down the stairs to get a snack mid-hairdye, consequently dotting my mother's cream staircase with various blotches of colour. We then spent the next week trying to concoct a story strong enough to ensure we avoided any punishment. Given that one of the contenders was to cut out cardboard monster feet and place them all the way up the stairs to my mother's bedroom, strategically covering hairdye stains in the process, it is safe to say that this did not work.) I got my comeuppance though - I was washing my hair last night and momentarily forgot I had dyed it, thus when I looked down at all the red in the bath I had a sudden panic attack and thought I was hemorrhaging.
I have a day off work tomorrow (finally) and I am worryingly excited about going somewhere, anywhere, that does not involve ham, cakes or pasties. The other day I saw a sign saying Home Sweet Home and for one terrifying moment I read it as Home Roast Ham. I think this definitely calls for a day off, even if I am only spending it by going to the bank and then hastily buying birthday presents for Lauren and Kelly for their birthday (obviously) next week. I'm excited to go out and get drunk for it, something I have missed dearly since leaving university. Saying that though, I did go on a pub crawl last week with some people from work, which was good fun. I'm going to have to learn to get used to drinking in places without hoards of students though - I've realised that using your elbows to get to the bar is only acceptable in places like the Student Union and tends to be frowned upon elsewhere. It was a good night though, although I did wake up in the morning wearing a pair of slipper socks I've not seen since I was about seven years old. I couldn't understand what was happening at first when my feet were sticking to the kitchen floor (they're those slipper socks with grips on the bottom) and for one horrifying moment I thought maybe I had urinated on the floor in a drunken haze. Thankfully not though, and just for the record, I have never done that. Not in the kitchen, anyway.