Sunday, 30 November 2014

'I'm Up Early On Sundays...'

Ah, Tall Australian. Now the only man left in my life. How much it doth pain me that we can only see each other a mere 10 minutes a week. You brighten my Sundays and it's as if you just don't care that I am all kinds of crazy busy haggling two Indonesian puppets whilst there's a queue of epic proportions waiting at the till for me. No, you just wait for the crowds to part so you can set eyes on my stressed out face.

I swear to God, those bloody Indonesian puppets were nearly the end of me.

So, I have control of the shop on Sundays. I have the keys and do the banking and all that shit. But it also means I am in charge. It means that customers ask me things and I am the highest member of staff in the store and am therefore required to know things. I do not know many things. I make a hell of a lot of things up. Especially when I am too lazy/busy/stressed/tired/hungover to think otherwise.

Like with the Indonesian puppets. This is an Indonesian puppet. (Say Indonesian puppet one more time, Nancy...):

Basically, we had two of these puppets sitting on the top shelf by the till. They hadn't been there last week and since I'd called in sick yesterday with a 'stomach bug' (read: sad and hungover having cried over LB in the rain at the beach like a pathetic troll) I had no idea about prices. They had a card in front of them saying they were £60. But of course, the grand question here is: £60 for both or £60 each?? 

This is literally what my life is coming to. Pricing Indonesian puppets.

Anyway, a man asked me to get one down for him. Like the obedient shop assistant that I am, I went up the stepladder and lifted it down. Apparently the base was not attached. So as I was up a stepladder in a very crowded shop, holding this bloody puppet by its waist, the base came sailing down and crashed into the CD player.

Ever the professional, I did not swear. So fucking proud of that, you have no idea. I told the customer that if it was damaged, I'd give him money off. It was not damaged. Nor was the other one I took down. Yet lo and behold, as I went behind the counter, he asked me if it was £60 for both or £60 apiece. As this was happening, more and more people were coming into the shop, minding their own business and swanning about as if the most stressful thing in the entire world wasn't about to happen before their very eyes.

I told Mr Man that I had no idea but would have thought they would be £60 each. But, ever the dutiful and awesome sales assistant, I said I could phone my manager and asked. So I did. I had to run downstairs to the phone and call my assistant manager on her mobile - thus leaving the shop floor devoid of shop assistants and only two volunteers there. These volunteers, although being utterly fabulous in every single way, do not work the till. So I knew there would be a huge till queue forming. And having confirmed with the assistant manager that even though it was supposed to be £60 each, we probably wouldn't sell them for that so should sell them for £60 each.

So I went back upstairs to be greeted by the heaving masses and that bloody till queue and told Mr Man the deal. He then decided to haggle with me. Yes, we are a charity shop (not telling you which one cos it said in my contract I'm not allowed to write anything bad about them and I probably already have somewhere and I presume they have eyes everywhere and am not willing to risk that. Kidding, I actually work for MI5) but even charity shops have pricing guidelines and rules and shit. 

I was getting so pissed off. I'd already had to strip down to a vest top as I was getting way too hot - therefore exposing my other tattoo which is tiny and not obvious at all but people, especially older ones, get very judgeypants so I try to avoid it when I'm at work. Anyway so I was obviously looking very stressed and worried and not impressed with any of the goings on. Eventually I agreed that, yes he could have them for £50 just so he would get out. As much as I do not like admitting defeat, I knew it would go on for ages. 

So he bought his bloody puppets and fannyed about with wrapping them and shit then left all jolly-like as if nothing had happened and he'd just gone into a shop and bought something and not left the poor assistant DISTRAUGHT.

Anyway, Tall Australian had evidently come in during this debacle so once I'd cleared my queue and re-shirted, he came up to the counter and was all like, gday.

I'm so tired after writing that rant about the Indonesian cocking puppets that I can't even remember what I was going to say about Tall Australian. Except I'm pretty sure he's going to propose to me in the next few weeks. I'll keep you posted.

Even Augustine (one of the volunteers) noticed that Tall Australian was being all flirtypants. He found it highly amusing so I yelled at him and threw a soft toy elephant at his head. Always the professional.

Oh! I also nearly killed a child today and felt so bad I gave his Dad £1 off the jeans he was buying. I'm just a decent human being, I really am.

Those fucking puppets. I swear to God.


  1. Next go pretend to make the call. Tell him they're 60 a piece but the manager is willing to knock off 10 on each. You pocket 40 and plead your case and tell your boss you though it was 60 for the pair.

    If there's any trouble...just tell her you can't give the money back because you spent it on dope. You've got a was either this or "business". Is that what she's want's? You turning tricks on the street? Then cry. If that doesn't work...scream at her she cares more about Indonesian puppets than she does you... give her a kung fu chop to the throat and run.

    1. I feel you may have some of your own frustrations to vent on Indonesian puppets there, Bartlam. I, on the other hand, am not as business savvy as that and I hope to God there are no more puppet type escapades at work this weekend...

      Although at the rate I'm going through the bottle of wine in the fridge in an attempt to read Twelfth Night, I don't think I'll be coherent for much of tomorrow's working day...