I am exhausted. The job was supposed to be part time. Just to cover the regular monthly bills and let me concentrate on writing. I haven’t even kept up with writing responses to emails (for which, apologies are due).
We are short staffed to the point where there is only me and Mopman left. Each of us lives in constant terror that the other will find another job first. Then there are the audits – the auditors are of the vindictive idiot variety who love to ‘fail’ things by finding hidden ledges nobody knows about and claiming they have not been cleaned. I have searched out every hidden ledge and informed Mopman of their locations. The auditors are in for a hard time. We are cleaning the ones they haven’t used in their mock ‘fail’ assessments yet.
So, three shifts in two days. That is not part time. I must move, but what shall I do next? To paraphrase Elvis Costello, I don’t want to go to Tesco (there is a song corruption floating around in here). In fact, I am thinking of looking for another job I have never tried before. Might as well have a go at everything before I die.
But enough moaning.
On the radio there is often mention of something called ‘Cash for Kids’ which is somehow connected with the Commonwealth smokefree games. I have no interest in the running jumping bouncy people, watching them gives me motion sickness, and since it is nonsmoking within a hundred miles of said bouncy people, I will not be going. I’ll be going to Wales instead, some time in August. I have not yet renewed my passport, no hurry, there is a backlog due to the plethora of applications from names composed almost entirely of the letters C and Z. Anyway I will be back before the referendum so even if Oily Al, history’s Bletherfart, manages to win independence I’ll be back before I need the passport to get in.
That ‘Cash for Kids’ interested me. Local Shop is infested with them. I wonder how much you get for each one? Do they do it by weight? Is it worth catching fat ones? They don’t move as fast. Then again, Local Shop likes the fat ones. They make thousands per month on sweet sales and I suspect they get a kickback from the local dentist.
In light of the previous post and the current paedomania, calling any kind of appeal ‘Cash for Kids’ has to be the decision of either a total moron or a committee. Those kids who were ‘adopted’, never to be seen by their parents again – where did they go and who paid for them? Very dark thoughts indeed develop from that line of thinking. The sort of darkness you’d get during a Cyril Smith solar eclipse. It makes a change from ‘do you want to see some puppies’, which was the catchphrase of the pervs in the old days. ‘Do you want to see a solar eclipse, small boy?’
I had That Writer Conversation this weekend. The whole work thing was a blur so I don’t remember exactly when, but it was over the weekend. It’s the one seasoned writers warn us wannabes about. They’ve all had it.
‘I hear you write books. Have I read any of them?’
‘I’ll tell you, if you tell me how many things I bought from the shelves you stacked today’ (thinks) ‘fucking idiot’.
Maybe it means I have arrived at writerdom. More likely it means that most people are idiots. Yes, that’s more likely.
In the evenings, outside Local Shop and elsewhere, the young drones gather. They park their cars stupidly close together and play their mad sound systems at full volume resulting in a blare of white noise because they are all playing different tunes. I have considered getting a car done up with the huge sound system, sidling up to their gathering, and turning mine on. But what should it be playing? I am torn between many choices. Rossini’s ‘Barber of Seville’. The ever-irritating ‘A Walk in the Black Forest’. Good old Terry Wogan’s ‘The Floral Dance’ or maybe that horror set to music, the ‘Birdie Song’. None of them are as terrible as the crap the young play anyway. They play stuff that sounds like a lot of amateur DIY enthusiasts nailing a chair to a bouncy castle and occasionally hitting their thumbs.
Boing boing boing boing boing boing ow.
One of the younger store staff thinks that the next stage in human evolution is imminent. Personally I was looking forward to the next mass extinction. He thinks we will evolve to cope with the vast amount of information blasted at us by the internet. One look at the next generation gathered outside in closely stacked cars playing music that would make a Neanderthal wince suggests that the next step in human evolution will be to assimilate no information at all.
They don’t think any more. They have phones instead of brains. Everything they believe to be true is gleaned from that randomly compiled source, Wikipedia. This is their hotline to God. They question nothing, they analyse nothing, they just believe. Not in any God, oh no, they consider religion to be just silly while carrying around a shrine and a prayer mat in the shape of a phone. Anything the shrine says is Gospel. Unquestionable. Unless it disagrees with what they already consider reality.
Reality, for the drones, is now what their personal prejudices say it is. Even though nobody has ever died or been made ill by second hand smoke, they are convinced they will die of it. Convince them harder, we could do with being rid of these cretins. The world would be a far happier place with the miserable git gene removed.
Well, that’s enough babbling. I have a few days of easy shifts coming up so I have time to recover and get some of this writing sorted out. It also gives me time to consider where to go from janitor land. Somewhere that isn’t understaffed…