Fuck!

I really shouldnt have deleted that other blog! But anyway, those of you who still follow/check this: I am currently writing on a new blog:

www.pornoscopy.com

its not actually porn.. its with two other guys and my posts are by 'PMS' because I'm the only female and can be a moody little shit.

I hope everyone is well!

Issy xx

Sick

Today, I went into work whilst ill. Yes - I am that dedicated to my art. I'm not throwing up or hungover, because on those two occasions I would phone in and tell them they can forget seeing me at work. I do however have the worlds most irritating cough.

(I'll quickly describe it to you, just in case someone reading this has a cure for me)

It hasn't given me a headache, hasn't made me sleepy and I don't have a temperature. The cough isn't coming from the chest, its coming from the throat - I suppose one could say its a 'tickly cough'. However I am currently coughing so bad that I either throw up or run out of air and nearly die. Which would be awful. So yeah, if you know what it is and how I can cure myself that would be great because the boyf is sleeping over on Friday and I would like to seem all sexy like, and not cough him out of bed.

So every single one of my customers seemed to be a doctor today. They all knew exactly what my cough was, their cousin/wife/brother/next door neighbour/long lost friend in Austria had the same cold, and theirs had lasted for a week/a month/a year..

Cures ranged from warm honey, to acupuncture, to their voice box being removed.

God help me.

The waiting game

As I'm under the age of 18 I am unable to serve alcohol, due to all sorts of legal reasons. So I have to press the 'cashier under age' button of shame and wait for a supervisor to come and authorise it.

Now I don't know what I did today to fuck someone off, but they sure as hell took there time. And because customers are dickheads, they'll tut and be all impatient with me, but as soon as it comes to an adult/supervisor they're fine about waiting!

And I was 15 minutes late for lunch because someone was late relieving me off the till.

I think the supervisors hate me.

Funniest shopping contents of the day:
2 bottles of wine
1 packet of tissues
1 packet of crisps
and 2 bars of chocolate.

Someones just been dumped!

The Mother

It was my mothers proudest moment the day I got hired at Waitrose. The discount, the uniform, the pleasure of being able to say her daughter is a partner of Waitrose and John Lewis was too much for her to bare. My mother is also someone who needs to have the last say in the in every sort of matter, debate or argument.

So when I declared I found working on the till a mundane and mind numbing task she went mental. Told me that every job was boring, and I would just have to ''fucking get used to it''. At which point I pointed out there must be jobs out there which are slightly more interesting and less repetitive than asking the same fucking ''do you need extra bags?'', ''doing any thing nice this weekend?'' and ''would you like cash back?'' to every customer I see for 8 hours each Saturday.

Whilst I admit: yes, yes I am lucky to have a job - especially one which pays so well. However, she can fucking sit on that till, get the back ache, get the tired arm, the twitching smile, the sarcastic glare in the eye, whilst your compassion for humanity erodes and then tell me how ''fantastic'' and ''wonderful'' the job is.

Everyone bitches about their job. Though no one quite understands the pain of the checkout girl.

Tears

Being new to the working world, I've made a few mistakes. Many of which I have made since, and will probably continue to make until they fire me.

A woman was dressed in a black suit, with a black blouse, and a black hat. Really going to town on the whole 'black is back' theme. So as I beeped through here items: tissues, chocolate, and fuck loads of flowers, I decided I ought to make some polite conversation because my supervisor was glaring at me. First thing that comes to mind? 'Ohh these flowers a just lovely! Who are they for?'. I then notice the black clothing, and it slowly dawns on me - she's not exactly attending a wedding now. She mumbles some reply along the lines of 'a close friend of mine' into her handbag as she searches for her tissues. So I felt bad for a while, and then realised that if they were such a special friend then supermarket flowers aren't going to do them any justice and she should have gone to a flouriest who are trained to deal with such issues as 'death'. Whereas me, little checkout girl, is trained in the art of inane conversation.

Background

So, at the ripe age of 16 I joined the ranks of those who are employed and pay tax. Thus allowing me to grumble and moan over anything to do with the NHS and the blatant wasting of benefits in some cases. I became a checkout girl of a well known supermarket. I was excited, happy with the warm glow of 'success' - £250 a month is not to be sniffed at for 32 hours a month.

I made it through the torturous group interview, where when asked to describe myself and an interesting fact it was 'look at the pretzel trick I can do with my arms' that fell out my mouth. And when I some how passed that one, despite being the only person in the room who wasn't in a suit - opting for a see through blouse and kharki chinos. I somehow managed to get another one, and then I was hired! Though I didn't get the job on the cake counter.. I ended stuck behind that monitor, constricted by a conveyor belt which just doesn't move and a cash draw which attacks me, on a chair which causes nothing but pain for my back whilst my feet swing helplessly off the floor.

And then, it got boring. I suspect many jobs get boring once the rose tinted glasses come off and you realise you're just faced with serving the general annoying public. Quite frankly - its bollocks. You may find the thought of this blog as mundane as I do - sitting on your arse for 8 hours each Saturday asking 'would you like cash back?' or 'do you have enough bags there?' with that forced and insincere smile isn't as fun as it sounds. Sometimes I do believe being a call girl would be more interesting, fulfilling and satisfying (because who doesn't like sex?) than being a checkout girl. But I'm not a call girl (sadly) and this is just a story of how I scan items for a living.

There are a few general things I have noticed in my month of being employed:

1. Why do people act like they've just left a baby in a burning building when they realise they've left their 'bags for life' in the car - or worse! At home!



2. The most common answer to 'doing anything nice this weekend?' is gardening.



3. People always whisper 'no' to the question 'do you want cash back?' - why? Who cares?



4. Everyone assumes that the girl behind the till is thick.

Watch this space - I have so many stories about people I've seen and met. Somethings to come:

1. The woman I made cry,



2. The fat woman and her jeggings,



3. The man who stroked me,



4. The American,



5. The Dragons,



6. And the politics of the changing room.