Bad Luck Comes in Threes (or Fours)

Bad Luck Comes in Threes (or Fours)

“It’s jist  bloody typical”, says my boss. “You’ll niver guess fits happened…” I groan. Seriously, what else could go wrong the first time the new owners go away for a week? They’ll probably never leave us alone again. We had our chance to show they could trust us and we blew it. Now I’ll never be able to eat crisps while filing accounts again.

Damn.

Problem 1 (Friday 4th July): “The till is ten pounds short.”

OH NO, WHAT HAVE I DONE? HOW CAN IT BE TEN POUNDS SHORT? DID I STEAL TEN POUNDS WITHOUT REALISING? IS THERE AN EXTRA TEN POUNDS IN MY PURSE?! WILL THEY FIRE ME? WILL I GO TO JAIL?

“It could have been any of us, we were all working today – someone probably gave twenty pounds cash-back instead of ten.”

Oh yeah, that’s a more likely scenario. I need to learn to chill. 

Problems 2&3 (Saturday 5th July, Morning):

I wasn’t in the shop when these problems took place, but when I arrived at one, I was greeted with a slightly more hysterical boss.

Me: Hi! How’s the morning been?

Boss: Oh nae good, Jose…

OH NO, WHAT THE HELL HAVE I DONE? DID I LOCK EVERYTHING LAST NIGHT? DID I TURN OFF ALL THE LIGHTS? DID I SLEEP-WALK TO THE SHOP THIS MORNING AND DO SOMETHING TERRIBLE AND UNFORGIVABLE? 

Boss: Well, the card machine’s down in the post office (phew, I don’t work in the post office) and the till’s not linking with the computer so there isn’t a list of transactions, people are paying their account, but their amount is staying the same, and we probably won’t be able to cash-up tonight. And there’ll be another thing of course…

Me: What do you mean?

Boss: Bad luck comes in threes, doesn’t it? Something else will go wrong.

(Problem 1 obviously isn’t bad enough to count).

Problem 3 or 4 (Sunday 6th July, Middle of the Night):

Again, this problem took place when I wasn’t in the shop and again, I was greeted with an even more hysterical boss.

Boss: So, at three in the morning, the phone goes. Lovely lad on the phone, told him I was half-asleep. Anyway, the alarm had gone off. So I jumps out of bed, don’t even know what I pulled on, and we sped to the shop – pen and paper at the ready to take down any license plates (Mission Impossible, Spar style) but when we gets to the shop, everything’s jist fine, but then I spotted this bloody thing (points to blind covering drinks cabinet) it must’ve pinged up, setting off the alarm.

Yep, Mission Impossible Spar Style. I wonder who’ll star us in the movie.

So that’s this weekend’s dramas and traumas. Other than that, nothing too special happened, although I did notice that everyone smelled yesterday. They didn’t smell, but they definitely had a smell about them. I think it was because I finally spent £4.99 (£4.99!!!!!!!!!) on hay fever tablets and so my sinuses were set free after weeks of captivity. It was that cosy Sunday smell of coffee, biscuits, last night’s boos, and wet dog.

I liked it.

 

Rebellion, Feminism, and Mackerel Pâté

Rebellion, Feminism, and Mackerel Pâté

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Ok, there may or may not be a photo above this sentence. They (THEEEEEY) have gone and changed things (after I’d just got used to them) and now I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. Although, even if you can see the photo, you probably don’t know what it is. Again, it has nothing to do with what I’m going to write about, but like I said yesterday, I miss putting up photos. They make the post look nice as well, although this is a photo of mackerel pâté and so I’m not 100% certain that I’ve achieved my aesthetic desire with this particular image. It was, however, very tasty. My step-mum (whose cooking is very questionable) made it and so I was a little surprised. She’s actually become a very good cook, but I remember what she used to feed us back in the day (things like egg trifles) and so I can’t help but feel a bolt of fear whenever she says the dreaded words, “I’ll make dinner tonight”.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Anyway, the shop was relatively quiet yesterday. There was another Dickens Cider joke; another affronted female, but since the shop is no longer a space of free speech and independent views, no one knows where feminism stands. These really are turbulent times.

Yesterday was quite a turbulent shift, actually. My shift started at four, which I hate. At that time, the staff have already established their roles and unless you take over from someone, then you’re sort of…out of the loop. I just wandered around for an hour, rustling things so it looked like I was doing something, but there really wasn’t anything for me to do and everyone knew that, but the pretence goes on. It wasn’t long, however, until the other staff left and the new owners tend to leave me alone a lot, which is AWESOME. I count down the minutes until it’s time for their dinner, dreaming of all the things I’ll get up to when they’re gone. I’ll go on my phone, sit down for a bit, put my feet up, eat some chocolate, read a magazine…my plans are endless, but when they do finally leave, I can’t bring myself to carry any of them out. I just work. The most rebellious thing I did yesterday was eat a bag of crisps while I filed accounts, which I would be allowed to do ANYWAY.

Therefore, my aim for this evening is to establish where exactly feminism stands and to become a significantly more rebellious individual.

 

I LOVE My Job, Ok?

I LOVE My Job, Ok?

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This photo has nothing to do with what I’m going to write, but since I’m talking about the Spar all the time, I haven’t been putting up any photos and I miss it. I took this photo in Barcelona because the t-shirt made me giggle – yes, I am probably one of the most immature individuals out there, but seriously, it’s funny! I actually wish I bought it. I would never wear it out, but it would definitely make me giggle every bedtime. The owner was also getting a bit pissed off with me because I kept taking photos of all the funny things in the shop, but didn’t actually buy anything. That would annoy me in the Spar – if people came in, took some pictures of a lettuce, a jar of mayonnaise, and a carton of milk and then left. It would also be deemed a tad eccentric.

So anyway, the hair went down ok…I think. You can never tell, can you? If people are being sincere or lying their asses off? No one told me that I looked like a boy who had bird shit on his head, but then why would they? I wish they would. We could maybe be friends. My Dad would tell me straight, but when he came into the shop, he didn’t even notice anything different. OH MY GOD, I wish my Dad would just stay away from the shop. My new boss told me that he came in the other day and said, “Have you heard about Josie’s blog?” (he hasn’t because I don’t tell ANYONE about it) so Dad then told him, “Oh, you’re in it a LOT”.

Thanks a bunch, Dad.

Now I feel like I have to be really careful about what I write about. When my boss told me what Dad had said, I giggled very faintly and said, “I’ll send you a link” (NOT going to happen). I still have palpitations about a story I wrote about the Spar in school and sent off to the exam board.

So, just to clarify, the new owners are LOVELY. The other staff that I’ve known for years are LOVELY. The customers are LOVELY. The till is LOVELY. The mop is LOVELY. The fact the 50p’s are kept locked in the safe even though all the other change is kept outside it, is LOVELY. Everything is just LOVELY. LOVELY, LOVELY, LOVELY.

LOVELY, OK?