I believe that anyone can look attractive if they dress well and clothing is something I've learnt to use to my advantage. Corsetry, stilettos and seamed stockings, fascinators, red lipstick and jewellery help me pretend that I'm not just plump and plain, help me create an illusion, a glamour. I love glamour. Every time someone tells me that I make them feel underdressed, every time a stranger comments on my outfit, it makes my whole day. But while what you wear can turn you from a little bown bird into a peacock, it can also just make you look a bit of a cock. I'm talking about Judy Finnegan's hammock-like bra making a bid for freedom at an awards ceremony, or Janet Jackson's bizarrely spiky nipple fighting its way out on stage. The wardrobe malfunction is one of the cruellest forms of humiliation and as I'm in a confessional mood, here are my top five most embarrassing instances.
Number Five: Picture the scene, I'm at the Leipzig goth festival, I'm with my boyfriend of the time and his band are playing the festival so I have a special access all areas wristband, I'm at the main venue and it's heaving with goths but with my magic wristband I can jump queues, I'm eyeing up other people's outfits and feeling pretty pleased with myself, I'm standing swigging mead with people from bands and feeling pretty damned cool. But what's this? Are these German goths staring in wonder at my amazing dress sense or has the zip on my skirt broken exposing my bum crack to anyone who cares to look? Yeah.
I've written before about the Hancock incident at the cinema that, along with the surfeit of bodily fluids, pushed me to resignation. What I didn't mention was wardrobe malfunction Number Four. So, I arrived at work having had to clean up shit the previous day to be presented with a costume to wear. That was quite bad. The costume consisted of a woolly hat and sunglasses in the middle of summer to be worn whilst standing in front of a hot dog grill. That was fairly awful. I hadn't put my contacts in so I was forced to wear the sunglasses perched above my normal glasses, looking like a mental who couldn't dress themselves properly. That was pretty appauling. Just before going down to my till I bent down to get my name badge and the seam on the inner thigh of my trousers split right up to the gusset meaning I had to spend the entire shift shuffling around concessions like a demented penguin with my legs together so as not to flash anyone. That was the icing on the cake of humiliation.
I try my very hardest to present an elegant exterior even if, as many people have told me, it only lasts until I open my mouth. Unfortunately events often conspire to rid me of any such illusions before I've even managed to do that, such as in incident Number Three. I realise that the tinned foods isle in Asda isn't the classiest of locations but you never know who you'll bump into at the supermarket and I was wearing a new pair of holdups. Has ever such a misnomer been applied to an item of hosiery? I was walking down frozen foods when I felt the right "holdup" come loose. I prayed it would stay put but by the time I'd reached baked goods the rubber top was flapping around my ankle like a bell around a clapper. Class, poise and elegance is not having to dive into the George changing room to peel off an errant stocking, then being forced to walk home in the rain one stocking on, one stocking off.
Class, poise and elegance were exactly what I wanted to present to the gentleman I went on a date with, who was instead confronted with clothing disaster Number Two. I met him for a drink and quite wanted to impress him. Unfortunate then that within the hour I'd gone arse over tit with a full pint in each hand. However, like the trooper I am, I picked myself up, resigned myself to smelling like a brewery and continued in my attempt to charm him. As I got up to go out for a cigarette I noticed him eyeing me up. I raised an eyebrow quizzically, "Just enjoying the view," he smirked. I felt pleased that he fancied me depite my enormous clumsiness and general ineptitude. It was only when I got home, via several modes of public transport, that I realised that when I fell over I'd split my pencil skirt right up the vent, exposing stocking tops, suspenders and far too much thigh to half of London.
Here we are at my Number One most embarrassing wardrobe malfunction. It has crossed my mind that most people probably haven't even had five, never mind enough to make a chart from but that's part of the exciting life I lead, I suppose. Anyway, when I was in my second year at Cambridge I was a member of a society whose entire purpose was to dress up as goths and get drunk. As you can imagine that was quite a stretch for me. On this occasion we were attending the formal dinner at Kings College. I was wearing a new corset and was somewhat over-excited and showing off, therefore managed to drink all of my wine but somehow not to eat anything. We'd hired out the Kings Cellar after the meal for playing of cheesy music and dancing. Among said cheesy music was the Timewarp from Rocky Horror. I think it might have been played twice. Both times I was there enthusiastically stepping to the right etc. to much encouragement. So much encouragement that I did it again in the bar once the cellar was shut. And possibly again another time after that. I may even have got home and done a bit of timewarping in the mirror. Where I discovered that when my arms were raised above my head they pulled my breasts out of the corset, making my nipples visible to everyone. Suddenly most of the applause made sense.
So, come on, what's your most embarrassing wardrobe malfunction?
Sunday, 21 September 2008
Monday, 15 September 2008
SHAME!
I discovered Bête de Jour's blog a few months ago and it's become a firm favourite. It's well written, funny, and at all times painfully honest. Today he asked his readers, "What's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done?" and as I have an internet crush on him am so good at humiliating myself, I thought I'd (over) share.
As with many of the incidents that sneak up on me when I'm trying to go to sleep, filling me with so much horror as I remember them that I have to stuff my duvet into my mouth to stop myself from screaming, I was very drunk when this occurred. I'd just started sleeping with a bloke in my friendship group that I'd fancied for ages, we'll call him Travis, and was in the pub with him and some others. I'd been drinking all afternoon on an empty stomach and was already about six pints of snakebite and black down before my mate, who we'll call Dan, got the evil glint in his eye that means he's about to suggest some sort of heinous drinking game. Dan's drinking games are always completely incomprehensible, involving all sorts of 'international drinking rules' to catch you out. I know hardened alcoholics who pale at the thought of Dan's drinking games, yet out of some sort of pathetic need to prove myself in front of Travis I decided to join in. Cue me having to down two pints in quick succession and half the pub watching as myself and a friend attempted to recite a ridiculous rhyme with added actions. Pretty embarrassing already, to be honest.
Alcohol can lift you up and make you feel like the king of the world but it can also be an insidious bastard. And so it was only when I stood up and got out into the fresh air after kicking out time that I realised exactly how fucked I was. But by then it was too late and I'd already agreed to go home with Travis. As I began to walk back to Travis's it became increasingly apparent that I was going to have to be sick very soon. In an attempt to retain what was left of my dignity, I asked him to walk ahead of me and told him I'd catch up with him in a minute. As soon as he was suitably far away I began to vomit purple froth into the gutter. Unfortunately I was so utterly bollocksed that the mere act of bending over was enough to cause me to suffer a lack of composure and topple into the gutter, landing in a pool of my own second hand snakebite. I was hauled out by a concerned pair of passing students, while Travis ran back down the road wondering what the hell was going on. Explaining that was pretty fucking humiliating but it does not end there, for I am an adept in the art of self-abasement, an expert in embarrassment.
I continued back to Travis's house, feeling better for the fresh air. I obviously felt so much better on arriving that I thought it would be a good idea to engage in a sex act. Only there are certain sex acts that really shouldn't be attempted when the gag reflex is still quivering and sensitive from a recent regurgitation. Nothing like coating your partner's crotch in emesis to kill the passionate mood. Cue Travis frantically trying to clean himself up and change the bedclothes around me as I sat on the end of the bed sobbing. To Travis's credit, he took it in his stride and we dated for two years. Until he dumped me because he'd decided he was gay. On positive days, I like to think the two incidents aren't connected.
As with many of the incidents that sneak up on me when I'm trying to go to sleep, filling me with so much horror as I remember them that I have to stuff my duvet into my mouth to stop myself from screaming, I was very drunk when this occurred. I'd just started sleeping with a bloke in my friendship group that I'd fancied for ages, we'll call him Travis, and was in the pub with him and some others. I'd been drinking all afternoon on an empty stomach and was already about six pints of snakebite and black down before my mate, who we'll call Dan, got the evil glint in his eye that means he's about to suggest some sort of heinous drinking game. Dan's drinking games are always completely incomprehensible, involving all sorts of 'international drinking rules' to catch you out. I know hardened alcoholics who pale at the thought of Dan's drinking games, yet out of some sort of pathetic need to prove myself in front of Travis I decided to join in. Cue me having to down two pints in quick succession and half the pub watching as myself and a friend attempted to recite a ridiculous rhyme with added actions. Pretty embarrassing already, to be honest.
Alcohol can lift you up and make you feel like the king of the world but it can also be an insidious bastard. And so it was only when I stood up and got out into the fresh air after kicking out time that I realised exactly how fucked I was. But by then it was too late and I'd already agreed to go home with Travis. As I began to walk back to Travis's it became increasingly apparent that I was going to have to be sick very soon. In an attempt to retain what was left of my dignity, I asked him to walk ahead of me and told him I'd catch up with him in a minute. As soon as he was suitably far away I began to vomit purple froth into the gutter. Unfortunately I was so utterly bollocksed that the mere act of bending over was enough to cause me to suffer a lack of composure and topple into the gutter, landing in a pool of my own second hand snakebite. I was hauled out by a concerned pair of passing students, while Travis ran back down the road wondering what the hell was going on. Explaining that was pretty fucking humiliating but it does not end there, for I am an adept in the art of self-abasement, an expert in embarrassment.
I continued back to Travis's house, feeling better for the fresh air. I obviously felt so much better on arriving that I thought it would be a good idea to engage in a sex act. Only there are certain sex acts that really shouldn't be attempted when the gag reflex is still quivering and sensitive from a recent regurgitation. Nothing like coating your partner's crotch in emesis to kill the passionate mood. Cue Travis frantically trying to clean himself up and change the bedclothes around me as I sat on the end of the bed sobbing. To Travis's credit, he took it in his stride and we dated for two years. Until he dumped me because he'd decided he was gay. On positive days, I like to think the two incidents aren't connected.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
Running the gauntlet
Some weeks ago I went to enroll in college where I was told by a charismatic man of a certain age and attractiveness that, as I'd be leaving my job at [cinema] before I started my course, I should sign on and come back in to enroll when in receipt of benefits as I'd then get the course for free rather than paying the hefty £950 fee. "Sign on, even if it's just for a week. I'm a tax payer and I don't have a problem with you doing that. I just want my students to get the best deal," he said, sweeping his hair out of his eyes with a rolled-up-shirt-sleeved arm. I nodded, trying not to let my mouth hang open. Not paying £950 sounded good to me but little did I know I was about to face an ordeal worse than exam term at Cambridge, worse than vomit on a ten hour shift at [cinema]. We hear about people that make a living by scamming the government, claiming benefits in different cities and I say let them keep the money. It's a full time job trying to extract one payment from them, I can only imagine the effort and patience required for four or five.
College gave me a form to be filled in and stamped at the Jobcentre. So when I went to sign on for the first time I brought it with me. After signing on:
Mavis: Miss F?
OGH: [goes and sits down at the table]
Mavis: [sighs in a loud and protracted manner] Book?
OGH: [hands over book]
Mavis: Sign here. NEXT!
I went downstairs and asked about getting my form stamped. I was shown immediately to a table where a nice young man called Tristan filled out my form quickly whilst making polite conversation and then I was on my way within the hour. I felt surprised and pleased that everything had gone so smoothly. However at this point I had no idea that I was already undergoing ORDEAL BY INCOMPETENCE. I took the form to my college, which is on the other side of South London to my home and the Jobcentre, and proudly handed over the form to the fee assesment lady. "Oh no," she shook her head, "Oh no, they've put an end date!" she prodded at the relevant part of the form with a fingernail manicured in hot pink, "Can't take it with an end date! The benefits have to be ongoing, look." She pointed to another part of the form where this was clearly stated. I inwardly cursed Tristan and his friendly conversation and complete lack of concentration. I had to wait for half an hour to see a smiley woman who confirmed that, yes, the form was useless. "I'm really sorry, you'll have to get another one filled in. God, it's in Woolwich! I'm sorry hun."
So was I, very sorry to be trailing yet again into Woolwich Jobcentre with a new form clasped between my fingers. I was a bit better prepared this time but there's no real preparation for ORDEAL BY OBSTRUCTION. First I was told that in order to see someone I'd have to make an appointment. Obviously the most natural way to do this is to sit on a jobcentre phone on hold for fifteen minutes before getting through to the main call centre in Belfast where you give them your NI number and they then put you through to the jobcentre you are sitting in where you are finally given an appointment for an hour and a half's time. An ingenious system. I'd been waiting about for over two hours when I finally saw Don, a flamboyant gentleman who waved me over in a manner that wouldn't have been out of place directing air traffic.
Don: Now what can we do for you?
OGH: Well, I've got my P45 to be faxed over...
Don: Oh gawd! I don't know if I'm supposed to be doing that! Oh gawd! Where do I send it...
OGH: New Claims.
Don: Oh Gaw... Really? New Claims? Oh right, I'll just fax that over then! Right. Anything else?
OGH: Yeah, could you just stamp this form for me? I've brought it in before but it was filled out incorrectly.
Don: Oh gawd! I can't do that! I'm not authorised! We're short staffed today and I'm not authorised! What's you NI number?
[types it in and presses return repeatedly while the computer beeps angrily]
Don: See? I'm not authorised! Bring it in tomorrow morning and Linda will do it for you. NEXT!
Linda sat in front of me the next morning looking apologetic. "I can't stamp that for you as the claim isn't coming up as live on the system." She typed my NI number in again and the computer beeped another emphatic "NO!". I showed her that I had, in fact, had the form filled in before. She looked over it and tutted, "Tristan!". My patience was running extremely thin. It seemed that this was ORDEAL BY MISCOMMUNICATION. "I have been here three times with this form," I said, my anger barely controlled, "I need it to enroll in college, if I still have a place after all this incompetent faffing." She called head office for me. Apparently the person handling my claim was away from their desk but would give me a call that afternoon and when they called I should make sure that they'd put my claim live on the system, then come in the next morning to get my form stamped. Of course I got no such call. I spent the evening near to tears through frustration, melodramatically flinging myself onto soft furnishings demanding, "Why won't they just stamp my fucking form? All I want is to better myself! Another chance at education!"
So, Wednesday morning, day three, I awoke with a steely determination. I gathered numbers and stepped into ORDEAL BY CALL CENTRE. This determination didn't falter when, having been on the phone to him for half an hour, the first man I spoke to told me my claim would probably take four to five days, too late for me to enroll, before realising that I'd been given the wrong number by the website and his call centre didn't cover Woolwich. The next number told me that my claim should have gone through but I'd have to call my local Jobcentre to get them to enter my last signing on date. I called Woolwich and was put through to a rather confused man.
Confused Man: What do you want?
OGH: Er, I need my last signing on date entered onto the system so my claim can be processed.
CM: Right. Are you on New Deal?
OGH: No...
CM: Well you shouldn't be talking to me then, who gave you this number?
OGH: I was put through by Woolwich jobcentre.
CM: Give me your NI number... right... you can't sign on today, you sign on on Fridays.
OGH: Yes, I know, I just need my last sign on date put...
CM: You come in on Friday to sign on, you can't have money today.
After hanging up I decided it was probably best to take direct action and went into Woolwich again. At the Jobcentre I waved at Don, smiled at Linda, realised I was probably in there more than some of the staff.
At the front desk I explained that I needed my sign on date inputted so that my claim could be processed and was given a number to ring and shown to a phone. At [cinema] we were taught to use the "Talking to a Brick Wall Technique" on very difficult customers, essentially just repeating yourself over and over again. I decided that this would be my tactic.
Callcentre Employee: Hello, NI number please... right, how can I help you?
OGH: Could you put my last sign on date on the system so my claim can go live please?
CE: Right... just doing that now... Right, you sign in on Fri...
OGH: Is my claim now live on the system?
CE: Well, I'll put a note...
OGH: Is my claim now live on the system?
CE: If you come in on Fri...
OGH: Is my claim now live on the system?
CE: Yes!
OGH: Right. Thank you.
And so I went and had my form stamped and filled in correctly by Linda, then had a trouble-free enrollment at College. VICTORY. Still haven't got any money though.
College gave me a form to be filled in and stamped at the Jobcentre. So when I went to sign on for the first time I brought it with me. After signing on:
Mavis: Miss F?
OGH: [goes and sits down at the table]
Mavis: [sighs in a loud and protracted manner] Book?
OGH: [hands over book]
Mavis: Sign here. NEXT!
I went downstairs and asked about getting my form stamped. I was shown immediately to a table where a nice young man called Tristan filled out my form quickly whilst making polite conversation and then I was on my way within the hour. I felt surprised and pleased that everything had gone so smoothly. However at this point I had no idea that I was already undergoing ORDEAL BY INCOMPETENCE. I took the form to my college, which is on the other side of South London to my home and the Jobcentre, and proudly handed over the form to the fee assesment lady. "Oh no," she shook her head, "Oh no, they've put an end date!" she prodded at the relevant part of the form with a fingernail manicured in hot pink, "Can't take it with an end date! The benefits have to be ongoing, look." She pointed to another part of the form where this was clearly stated. I inwardly cursed Tristan and his friendly conversation and complete lack of concentration. I had to wait for half an hour to see a smiley woman who confirmed that, yes, the form was useless. "I'm really sorry, you'll have to get another one filled in. God, it's in Woolwich! I'm sorry hun."
So was I, very sorry to be trailing yet again into Woolwich Jobcentre with a new form clasped between my fingers. I was a bit better prepared this time but there's no real preparation for ORDEAL BY OBSTRUCTION. First I was told that in order to see someone I'd have to make an appointment. Obviously the most natural way to do this is to sit on a jobcentre phone on hold for fifteen minutes before getting through to the main call centre in Belfast where you give them your NI number and they then put you through to the jobcentre you are sitting in where you are finally given an appointment for an hour and a half's time. An ingenious system. I'd been waiting about for over two hours when I finally saw Don, a flamboyant gentleman who waved me over in a manner that wouldn't have been out of place directing air traffic.
Don: Now what can we do for you?
OGH: Well, I've got my P45 to be faxed over...
Don: Oh gawd! I don't know if I'm supposed to be doing that! Oh gawd! Where do I send it...
OGH: New Claims.
Don: Oh Gaw... Really? New Claims? Oh right, I'll just fax that over then! Right. Anything else?
OGH: Yeah, could you just stamp this form for me? I've brought it in before but it was filled out incorrectly.
Don: Oh gawd! I can't do that! I'm not authorised! We're short staffed today and I'm not authorised! What's you NI number?
[types it in and presses return repeatedly while the computer beeps angrily]
Don: See? I'm not authorised! Bring it in tomorrow morning and Linda will do it for you. NEXT!
Linda sat in front of me the next morning looking apologetic. "I can't stamp that for you as the claim isn't coming up as live on the system." She typed my NI number in again and the computer beeped another emphatic "NO!". I showed her that I had, in fact, had the form filled in before. She looked over it and tutted, "Tristan!". My patience was running extremely thin. It seemed that this was ORDEAL BY MISCOMMUNICATION. "I have been here three times with this form," I said, my anger barely controlled, "I need it to enroll in college, if I still have a place after all this incompetent faffing." She called head office for me. Apparently the person handling my claim was away from their desk but would give me a call that afternoon and when they called I should make sure that they'd put my claim live on the system, then come in the next morning to get my form stamped. Of course I got no such call. I spent the evening near to tears through frustration, melodramatically flinging myself onto soft furnishings demanding, "Why won't they just stamp my fucking form? All I want is to better myself! Another chance at education!"
So, Wednesday morning, day three, I awoke with a steely determination. I gathered numbers and stepped into ORDEAL BY CALL CENTRE. This determination didn't falter when, having been on the phone to him for half an hour, the first man I spoke to told me my claim would probably take four to five days, too late for me to enroll, before realising that I'd been given the wrong number by the website and his call centre didn't cover Woolwich. The next number told me that my claim should have gone through but I'd have to call my local Jobcentre to get them to enter my last signing on date. I called Woolwich and was put through to a rather confused man.
Confused Man: What do you want?
OGH: Er, I need my last signing on date entered onto the system so my claim can be processed.
CM: Right. Are you on New Deal?
OGH: No...
CM: Well you shouldn't be talking to me then, who gave you this number?
OGH: I was put through by Woolwich jobcentre.
CM: Give me your NI number... right... you can't sign on today, you sign on on Fridays.
OGH: Yes, I know, I just need my last sign on date put...
CM: You come in on Friday to sign on, you can't have money today.
After hanging up I decided it was probably best to take direct action and went into Woolwich again. At the Jobcentre I waved at Don, smiled at Linda, realised I was probably in there more than some of the staff.
At the front desk I explained that I needed my sign on date inputted so that my claim could be processed and was given a number to ring and shown to a phone. At [cinema] we were taught to use the "Talking to a Brick Wall Technique" on very difficult customers, essentially just repeating yourself over and over again. I decided that this would be my tactic.
Callcentre Employee: Hello, NI number please... right, how can I help you?
OGH: Could you put my last sign on date on the system so my claim can go live please?
CE: Right... just doing that now... Right, you sign in on Fri...
OGH: Is my claim now live on the system?
CE: Well, I'll put a note...
OGH: Is my claim now live on the system?
CE: If you come in on Fri...
OGH: Is my claim now live on the system?
CE: Yes!
OGH: Right. Thank you.
And so I went and had my form stamped and filled in correctly by Linda, then had a trouble-free enrollment at College. VICTORY. Still haven't got any money though.
Thursday, 21 August 2008
Why this is hell, nor am I out of it
Nine thirty on a Saturday morning is for being in bed. It's for reaching groggily for pain killers to numb the hangover before turning over and going back to sleep. If you're a particularly enthusiastic type, it might be for fucking. But what it's emphatically not for is standing in the grim lobby of Woolwich Job Centre Plus. I was greeted by two security guards, and a man with his shirt hanging out who handed me a sheaf of papers and pointed me towards a chair. There I studiously checked over the details that I'd given over the phone (she'd misheard my phone number and apparently not even made an attempt to hear my last work dates). I painstakingly signed and dated every correction and then turned my attention to a form I had to fill in. The first question read, "Do you have any problems with English or Math's that would prevent you getting work?" Yep, "math's". This was a portent of things to come.
When I was finished I was called over to see Julie (not real name obviously, especially not with my memory).
Julie: Hello Miss F. [shuffles papers] Now I see here that you've studied at university.
Our Glamorous Heroine: Well, I...
J: Oh! Sian! I thought you weren't in today!
Sian: I was feeling a bit sick but I thought I may as well come in... Dave, fuck off out of my chair! Did you hear that Darren walked out yesterday?
J: Really?
S: Yeah, he had to be escorted off the premises!
J: [Realises that half of the job centre are looking up from their forms, listening with rapt attention] Sian! That's company business! Don't talk about it in front of customers! Yes Miss F?
OGH: Well, I actually dropped out after two years due to illness.
J: Right, have you got the letter from your university stating that you no longer attend?
OGH: Er, no, the woman on the phone didn't mention having to bring one.
J: Tchuh. They don't make our job any easier for us!
After that little chat I was asked to take a seat again ("No, not that seat Miss F, the completely indistinguishable one directly next to it.") where I waited to see another 'adviser'.
Claire: Right, I just need to ask you a few more questions Miss F... just one minute... Sandra! Sandra!
Sandra: [comes over leaving her own client] Yeah? Oh, right, what you do is you just click yes or no for each question and then it comes up red or green at the end, then you just delete it and put successful or unsuccessful.
C: So you have to do it even though you just delete it straight after? That's stupid! [sticks tongue under bottom lip and gurns making an "uuh" noise]
[Enter manager, a bloke about my age who could have done with a shave, from behind a glass partition having noticed the conflab.]
Dale: Everything all right ladies? You're remembering to do the [incomprehensible jargon procedure]?
C: Yeah, yeah.
[Exit manager Dale.]
S: Hahahaha, he asked me if I was doing that earlier and I was like, "Of course I am," but I didn't have a clue what he was on about!
Having finally got through the questions (Claire: Any qualifications? OGH: Yeah, 10 GCSEs, 5 AS levels, 3 A levels Claire: AS levels? Never heard of them! OGH: Just put 3 A levels...) I was informed that yes, I was eligible for JSA (green, successful) and asked if I had any questions.
OGH: Er, yes, I have to bring in proof that I left university due to illness. Where shall I bring it in to?
C: One minute... Dale! Dale! This lady needs to bring in proof that she's left uni because she was ill. Where does she give it in to?
Dale: [comes out from behind his partition again] Er, that would have to be Procedures.
C: But the public can't give stuff to Procedures.
D: Oh, right, yeah, I guess she'd have to give it to New Claims then. Yeah, just come in and go upstairs to New Claims...
C: But she won't be allowed without an appointment
D: Nah, she can just tell reception that she needs to hand some stuff in and it'll be okay.
C: Right, so what you need to do is come in and ask for New Claims
OGH: Oh really?
I have to go in to sign on tomorrow. I haven't filled in my form stating what I've been doing to look for work this week yet. Somehow I don't think "read article in the paper about the phone sex trade" is going to cut it either. Sigh. Wish me luck.
When I was finished I was called over to see Julie (not real name obviously, especially not with my memory).
Julie: Hello Miss F. [shuffles papers] Now I see here that you've studied at university.
Our Glamorous Heroine: Well, I...
J: Oh! Sian! I thought you weren't in today!
Sian: I was feeling a bit sick but I thought I may as well come in... Dave, fuck off out of my chair! Did you hear that Darren walked out yesterday?
J: Really?
S: Yeah, he had to be escorted off the premises!
J: [Realises that half of the job centre are looking up from their forms, listening with rapt attention] Sian! That's company business! Don't talk about it in front of customers! Yes Miss F?
OGH: Well, I actually dropped out after two years due to illness.
J: Right, have you got the letter from your university stating that you no longer attend?
OGH: Er, no, the woman on the phone didn't mention having to bring one.
J: Tchuh. They don't make our job any easier for us!
After that little chat I was asked to take a seat again ("No, not that seat Miss F, the completely indistinguishable one directly next to it.") where I waited to see another 'adviser'.
Claire: Right, I just need to ask you a few more questions Miss F... just one minute... Sandra! Sandra!
Sandra: [comes over leaving her own client] Yeah? Oh, right, what you do is you just click yes or no for each question and then it comes up red or green at the end, then you just delete it and put successful or unsuccessful.
C: So you have to do it even though you just delete it straight after? That's stupid! [sticks tongue under bottom lip and gurns making an "uuh" noise]
[Enter manager, a bloke about my age who could have done with a shave, from behind a glass partition having noticed the conflab.]
Dale: Everything all right ladies? You're remembering to do the [incomprehensible jargon procedure]?
C: Yeah, yeah.
[Exit manager Dale.]
S: Hahahaha, he asked me if I was doing that earlier and I was like, "Of course I am," but I didn't have a clue what he was on about!
Having finally got through the questions (Claire: Any qualifications? OGH: Yeah, 10 GCSEs, 5 AS levels, 3 A levels Claire: AS levels? Never heard of them! OGH: Just put 3 A levels...) I was informed that yes, I was eligible for JSA (green, successful) and asked if I had any questions.
OGH: Er, yes, I have to bring in proof that I left university due to illness. Where shall I bring it in to?
C: One minute... Dale! Dale! This lady needs to bring in proof that she's left uni because she was ill. Where does she give it in to?
Dale: [comes out from behind his partition again] Er, that would have to be Procedures.
C: But the public can't give stuff to Procedures.
D: Oh, right, yeah, I guess she'd have to give it to New Claims then. Yeah, just come in and go upstairs to New Claims...
C: But she won't be allowed without an appointment
D: Nah, she can just tell reception that she needs to hand some stuff in and it'll be okay.
C: Right, so what you need to do is come in and ask for New Claims
OGH: Oh really?
I have to go in to sign on tomorrow. I haven't filled in my form stating what I've been doing to look for work this week yet. Somehow I don't think "read article in the paper about the phone sex trade" is going to cut it either. Sigh. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, 19 August 2008
I've been framed
Last week I was wrenched from my slumber by a mad figure careering around my room shouting obscenities. I sat up in bed with a start and realised that I was in my room at my parents' house and the figure was my mother.
Mummy Dearest: ...want to know what the fuck you've done to my fucking laptop...
Our Glamorous Heroine: Wuh? Laptop?
MD: I can't fucking turn it on and I don't know how to wake your brother to deal with it!
And it dawned on me. I'd used my mother's laptop the previous evening as I hadn't brought mine from Cambridge. I searched my still sleep-addled brain for any clues as to what I could possibly have done to it.
Now, my mother is a writer and so her laptop is understandably extremely important to her. That is why, once I'd finished on it, I asked her how it should be shut down. Just how you normally shut down a computer? I asked and she said yes. So I went to the start menu and pressed the familiar red button. Mistake.
MD: You've shut it down wrong and I can't fucking get into it. I need to do my fucking work.
OGH: I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do anything to it, I just...
MD: The only fucking constant I need in my life is being able to get into my fucking laptop...
Information swam back to me as I regained consciousness. She had an imminent deadline with her agent. I probably wasn't as clear as I could have been when asking how I should shut it down. Nothing makes a writer more angry than not being able to write. That scene in The Shining when Jack Nicholson has a go at his wife for interrupting him when he's working at the type writer ("Whenever l'm in here. . . and you hear me typing. . . or whatever the fuck you hear me doing in here. . . when l'm in here, that means l am working. That means don't come in. Do you think you can handle that? Fine. Why don't you start right now and get the fuck out of here?") could be documentary fact as far as my experience with writers goes. I'd fucked up big time. I decided to duck and cover and weather out the storm.
My mother finally left my room with a slam of the door and a shout of, "And don't ever go near my laptop ever again!" No fear of that, thought I, and very definitely remembered to bring my laptop down with me when I came back at the weekend. So, when this morning I heard a scream that Grendel's mother would have been proud of emanating from my mother's room I ignored it. Nothing to do with me, I thought. Mistake. I've written before about how technology has conspired against me and it appears that it has happened again. As my mother was leaving the house she gave me a steely glare.
MD: You've fucked up my laptop up again.
OGH: I haven't been anywhere near it.
MD: Well it wouldn't turn on, exactly the same way as last time, and then it said that you were logged on.
OGH: I don't know why that is because I really haven't been on it. I've got my laptop so why would I want to use yours?
MD: Well it says Elizabeth is logged on and I don't know any other Elizabeths who would be on it.
OGH: I promise I haven't been on it, seriously.
MD: Well you were on it last week and that's started all this. Just don't fucking break other peoples' stuff. You obviously left bad seeds on it.
OGH:...
I didn't ask if that was a technical term or if Nick Cave had been there with the 'bad seeds'. I just resigned myself to the fact that the laptop had planted my finger prints all over a crime I didn't commit and so I must endure another dose of writers' wrath. I bloody hate technology.
Mummy Dearest: ...want to know what the fuck you've done to my fucking laptop...
Our Glamorous Heroine: Wuh? Laptop?
MD: I can't fucking turn it on and I don't know how to wake your brother to deal with it!
And it dawned on me. I'd used my mother's laptop the previous evening as I hadn't brought mine from Cambridge. I searched my still sleep-addled brain for any clues as to what I could possibly have done to it.
Now, my mother is a writer and so her laptop is understandably extremely important to her. That is why, once I'd finished on it, I asked her how it should be shut down. Just how you normally shut down a computer? I asked and she said yes. So I went to the start menu and pressed the familiar red button. Mistake.
MD: You've shut it down wrong and I can't fucking get into it. I need to do my fucking work.
OGH: I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do anything to it, I just...
MD: The only fucking constant I need in my life is being able to get into my fucking laptop...
Information swam back to me as I regained consciousness. She had an imminent deadline with her agent. I probably wasn't as clear as I could have been when asking how I should shut it down. Nothing makes a writer more angry than not being able to write. That scene in The Shining when Jack Nicholson has a go at his wife for interrupting him when he's working at the type writer ("Whenever l'm in here. . . and you hear me typing. . . or whatever the fuck you hear me doing in here. . . when l'm in here, that means l am working. That means don't come in. Do you think you can handle that? Fine. Why don't you start right now and get the fuck out of here?") could be documentary fact as far as my experience with writers goes. I'd fucked up big time. I decided to duck and cover and weather out the storm.
My mother finally left my room with a slam of the door and a shout of, "And don't ever go near my laptop ever again!" No fear of that, thought I, and very definitely remembered to bring my laptop down with me when I came back at the weekend. So, when this morning I heard a scream that Grendel's mother would have been proud of emanating from my mother's room I ignored it. Nothing to do with me, I thought. Mistake. I've written before about how technology has conspired against me and it appears that it has happened again. As my mother was leaving the house she gave me a steely glare.
MD: You've fucked up my laptop up again.
OGH: I haven't been anywhere near it.
MD: Well it wouldn't turn on, exactly the same way as last time, and then it said that you were logged on.
OGH: I don't know why that is because I really haven't been on it. I've got my laptop so why would I want to use yours?
MD: Well it says Elizabeth is logged on and I don't know any other Elizabeths who would be on it.
OGH: I promise I haven't been on it, seriously.
MD: Well you were on it last week and that's started all this. Just don't fucking break other peoples' stuff. You obviously left bad seeds on it.
OGH:...
I didn't ask if that was a technical term or if Nick Cave had been there with the 'bad seeds'. I just resigned myself to the fact that the laptop had planted my finger prints all over a crime I didn't commit and so I must endure another dose of writers' wrath. I bloody hate technology.
Friday, 8 August 2008
Coda
Something worrying happened this morning. I found myself getting nostalgic about work. I miss my cinema friends, it was always the fantastic people that made the job bearable and I probably laughed as much as I seethed with rage. However certain things bear remembering.
Just before I left, Mamma Mia came out. I thought Sex & The City was bad for rude harridans with entitlement compexes ("I have to queue? But I've booked tickets and paid for a babysitter!" "Why can't you tell me exactly how much fat there is in the low fat natural yoghurt?") but Mamma Mia brought them all flooding back in with the added bonus of a song they could sing endlessly and off-key. It was always the small things that made working at the cinema that bit more difficult. When new members of staff join they have to undergo training. One of the training modules is entitled "Tools of the Trade" in which new Guest Assistants are informed that the tools of their trade are the wheelie bin, the pick up, and the slop bucket. Inspiring stuff.
So Mamma Mia had just come out meaning that several screens were sold out and there was more mess than a reception classroom after an "art" lesson. The ushering team reach for the tools of their trade, only what the training didn't tell us was that we'd run out of bin bags on every busy weekend and there would only ever be three pickups between five. Three pick ups: one with the stick attatched to the bucket broken in half, one with the stick attatched to the brush broken in half, and one where the minute the bucket became full it flew off the stick disgorging its contents all over the floor. But we did our best stooping and periodically swearing only to realise that we were being subjected to yet another cruel and unusual punishment.
In order to celebrate the release of Mamma fucking Mia [cinema] was sent a tape by head office to be played in all the screens between showings. This involved the same seven Abba songs being played over and over again with some "advertising" in between songs. Said "advertising" was obviously being read out by Dave from accounts whose uncle had once done a brief turn on hospital radio and was therefore the best man for the job. The terrible American accent was embarrassing enough but the puns were unspeakable. As "Take A Chance On Me" faded out we hear, "But don't take a chance on seeing the sold out sign and book tickets from a member of staff". Pretty cringe-worthy. But it was after "Voulez-Vous" when Dave-from-accounts intoned, "And don't forget to view les Vue listings at myvue.com," that I seriously considered committing suicide with the sharp end of a broken pick up.
Truth be told, I was getting pretty intolerant by the end. Woe betide the customer that annoyed me. For example the woman who ran up to me in the box office shouting, "I need a student ticket for this girl for Kung Fu Panda now!"
Our Glamourous Heroine: Does she have a student card?
Posh Harpy: No! She's an international student. She's staying with me over the summer!
OGH: I'm afraid it's company policy that I can't sell a student ticket without a valid student card.
PH: Well you either believe me or you don't.
OGH: I'm afraid I...
PH: [banging the counter with her hand] Could you just hurry up! The film's about to start! Just give me a ticket!
OGH: Right, here's an adult ticket and some manners wouldn't go amiss. That'll be £7.10 please.
PH: Oh, er, thank you.
I suspect it was best for everyone that I left before there was a murder.
An amusing post script to my time at the cinema is that there was a visit by a mystery shopper on my last shift. "Guess who got 100% at box office? Gave a voucher, was helpful, and smiled?" asked my best work mate Stephen over a drink recently. That's right bitches, it was me. I have some really good suggestions as to what management can do with that information.
Just before I left, Mamma Mia came out. I thought Sex & The City was bad for rude harridans with entitlement compexes ("I have to queue? But I've booked tickets and paid for a babysitter!" "Why can't you tell me exactly how much fat there is in the low fat natural yoghurt?") but Mamma Mia brought them all flooding back in with the added bonus of a song they could sing endlessly and off-key. It was always the small things that made working at the cinema that bit more difficult. When new members of staff join they have to undergo training. One of the training modules is entitled "Tools of the Trade" in which new Guest Assistants are informed that the tools of their trade are the wheelie bin, the pick up, and the slop bucket. Inspiring stuff.
So Mamma Mia had just come out meaning that several screens were sold out and there was more mess than a reception classroom after an "art" lesson. The ushering team reach for the tools of their trade, only what the training didn't tell us was that we'd run out of bin bags on every busy weekend and there would only ever be three pickups between five. Three pick ups: one with the stick attatched to the bucket broken in half, one with the stick attatched to the brush broken in half, and one where the minute the bucket became full it flew off the stick disgorging its contents all over the floor. But we did our best stooping and periodically swearing only to realise that we were being subjected to yet another cruel and unusual punishment.
In order to celebrate the release of Mamma fucking Mia [cinema] was sent a tape by head office to be played in all the screens between showings. This involved the same seven Abba songs being played over and over again with some "advertising" in between songs. Said "advertising" was obviously being read out by Dave from accounts whose uncle had once done a brief turn on hospital radio and was therefore the best man for the job. The terrible American accent was embarrassing enough but the puns were unspeakable. As "Take A Chance On Me" faded out we hear, "But don't take a chance on seeing the sold out sign and book tickets from a member of staff". Pretty cringe-worthy. But it was after "Voulez-Vous" when Dave-from-accounts intoned, "And don't forget to view les Vue listings at myvue.com," that I seriously considered committing suicide with the sharp end of a broken pick up.
Truth be told, I was getting pretty intolerant by the end. Woe betide the customer that annoyed me. For example the woman who ran up to me in the box office shouting, "I need a student ticket for this girl for Kung Fu Panda now!"
Our Glamourous Heroine: Does she have a student card?
Posh Harpy: No! She's an international student. She's staying with me over the summer!
OGH: I'm afraid it's company policy that I can't sell a student ticket without a valid student card.
PH: Well you either believe me or you don't.
OGH: I'm afraid I...
PH: [banging the counter with her hand] Could you just hurry up! The film's about to start! Just give me a ticket!
OGH: Right, here's an adult ticket and some manners wouldn't go amiss. That'll be £7.10 please.
PH: Oh, er, thank you.
I suspect it was best for everyone that I left before there was a murder.
An amusing post script to my time at the cinema is that there was a visit by a mystery shopper on my last shift. "Guess who got 100% at box office? Gave a voucher, was helpful, and smiled?" asked my best work mate Stephen over a drink recently. That's right bitches, it was me. I have some really good suggestions as to what management can do with that information.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Getting over it
It's a typical British summer holiday. I'm trying to eat a fish cake with one of those wooden forks before the seagulls notice what I've got, and watching the grey sky blend seamlessly into the grey sea. People are huddled on the beach wrapped in multi-coloured towels and ponies trudge up and down the sand. It's nearly 20 years since my family came here for the first time and there are memories everywhere. Up the sea front is the Sea Life Centre where Middle Brother would stare at the seals for hours and we'd eat jelly snakes. To my right is the funfair with the wiggly slides which we used to visit for a treat in the evening. I remember fondly the first time I publicly humiliated myself, going down them in a dress which I was convinced made me look very grown up, only for my skirt to blow up exposing my underwear to all and causing the man taking the money to exclaim loudly in case anyone had failed to notice, "Look, she's showing her frillies!" I remember the game my father used to set for us, to see who could spot the most tattoos on people walking along the front. One point for an inked arm, five for a neck. I have my own now and god knows how many points that's lost me in his eyes. And I can see Littlest Brother, now 19 and six foot, standing on the beach aged four trying to get his mouth round a gobstopper bigger than his head.
I'm losing myself in these memories, digging deeper and deeper. The first meal I ever had here was fish shapes, chips, and beans. The first grumpy pony I rode along the beach was called Minnie. The first time we came we made a scrapbook, my mother painstakingly helping me to stick shells into it every evening before we ate, Middle Brother doing detailed scribbles on the blank pages. I'm losing myself on purpose so I won't have to think about the most recent time I've visited. The time in freezing, windy January when the fish and chip stands were boarded up and the front was empty save for a few birdwatchers huddled in the only tea room open out of season. The time when I was so desperate that I packed up and ran away fom Cambridge on the spur of the moment. I was stuck in a labyrinth of unfinished work, depression, failed potential, and panic. Some psychiatrists say that 'home' is reliving your childhood and so perhaps unconsciously I sought safety in the place of my childhood holidays. At a time in my life when I could have felt so utterly alone he came with me.
I don't know how long you're allowed to feel heartbroken for before it becomes horribly self-indulgent. I suspect at nearly a year since he dropped his bombshell I'm pushing the bounds of sympathy when I get maudlin like this. It's not the searing pain of the first weeks, pain that I was too terrified to look straight at in case I couldn't take it. It's just an ache that nags me occasionally. He came with me and we ate chips in the cold and he was sober then but he sat patiently and watched me drink it all away and we giggled in the prissy guest house and stared at penguins in the Sea Life Centre. And even though the sun almost came out earlier and I'm on my way to getting my life back on track, it hurts that I'll never have that with him again.
We went to a film the other day, I say we, he brought his new partner with him, and as I was saying goodbye, he dropped another bombshell. He's going away for six weeks and by the time he gets back I'll be in London starting college. As I walked home I wondered if this wasn't for the best. Detach yourself! I mentally yelled. Later, at the goth night I organised a goodbye coffee for the next day. An old song came on and I walked to the dance floor and danced alone, hair in my face, balanced on my 6" heels. I saw him across the floor and lifted my head to sing the chorus. "I take back my trust in you." I wanted it to be an exorcism, I spat the words trying to forget the times we danced together to songs he now pulls his boyfriend onto the dance floor for. And the next day I was calm. We talked about nothing and politely caught up on each other's lives. We hugged goodbye and he said he'd come to visit in London and I nodded knowing that if he did it wouldn't be for me and nor should it be, I suppose. And then we went our separate ways and that was it. Not with a bang but a whimper, I thought. And just maybe I'm slowly getting over it.
I'm losing myself in these memories, digging deeper and deeper. The first meal I ever had here was fish shapes, chips, and beans. The first grumpy pony I rode along the beach was called Minnie. The first time we came we made a scrapbook, my mother painstakingly helping me to stick shells into it every evening before we ate, Middle Brother doing detailed scribbles on the blank pages. I'm losing myself on purpose so I won't have to think about the most recent time I've visited. The time in freezing, windy January when the fish and chip stands were boarded up and the front was empty save for a few birdwatchers huddled in the only tea room open out of season. The time when I was so desperate that I packed up and ran away fom Cambridge on the spur of the moment. I was stuck in a labyrinth of unfinished work, depression, failed potential, and panic. Some psychiatrists say that 'home' is reliving your childhood and so perhaps unconsciously I sought safety in the place of my childhood holidays. At a time in my life when I could have felt so utterly alone he came with me.
I don't know how long you're allowed to feel heartbroken for before it becomes horribly self-indulgent. I suspect at nearly a year since he dropped his bombshell I'm pushing the bounds of sympathy when I get maudlin like this. It's not the searing pain of the first weeks, pain that I was too terrified to look straight at in case I couldn't take it. It's just an ache that nags me occasionally. He came with me and we ate chips in the cold and he was sober then but he sat patiently and watched me drink it all away and we giggled in the prissy guest house and stared at penguins in the Sea Life Centre. And even though the sun almost came out earlier and I'm on my way to getting my life back on track, it hurts that I'll never have that with him again.
We went to a film the other day, I say we, he brought his new partner with him, and as I was saying goodbye, he dropped another bombshell. He's going away for six weeks and by the time he gets back I'll be in London starting college. As I walked home I wondered if this wasn't for the best. Detach yourself! I mentally yelled. Later, at the goth night I organised a goodbye coffee for the next day. An old song came on and I walked to the dance floor and danced alone, hair in my face, balanced on my 6" heels. I saw him across the floor and lifted my head to sing the chorus. "I take back my trust in you." I wanted it to be an exorcism, I spat the words trying to forget the times we danced together to songs he now pulls his boyfriend onto the dance floor for. And the next day I was calm. We talked about nothing and politely caught up on each other's lives. We hugged goodbye and he said he'd come to visit in London and I nodded knowing that if he did it wouldn't be for me and nor should it be, I suppose. And then we went our separate ways and that was it. Not with a bang but a whimper, I thought. And just maybe I'm slowly getting over it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
