Careful where you stick that ...

Once upon a time, I worked for a bloke from Belfast whose voice could melt glass, especially after a curry.  Anyway, in a mere 18 months, he taught me about planning computer systems and the terrible things that might happen at interfaces when two worlds collide in a global food business.  He had also developed an obsessive relationship with the work-life balance, and expressed a pathological disinterest in any work-related nostalgia; actively discouraging it in the workplace as a “useless waste of time”.  Maybe it is, unless you’re in long-term occupational therapy.

So why, after a mere three weeks in Job2 do I find myself looking over my shoulder at the Retail Cathedral with a gentle tear in my eye and overwhelmed by a whole bucket of nostalgia?  Despite its many failings and false starts, I believe it had comfort and familiarity, not to mention holiday/sick pay and bonuses of a kind.  Now those perks are gone and I’m feeling quite isolated in what appears on the surface to be a girls’ school where no-one’s moved on for the last 20 years.  Sorry, I should know, I went to an all-girls school and the whiff of hormones could choke you at times.

So with nostalgia in mind, I’m looking over my shoulder with fondness for the beauty industry and have decided to share the great truths I’ve learned before moving swiftly on:

• In uniform, you are invisible to the customer.  At the start of the Boxing Day sale, you will be trampled underfoot if you stand between the customer and a perceived bargain.
• “I’m looking for moisture cream” is a euphemism for “I am the grumpy mystery shopper and unless you stick to the script, I will mark your store as a zero!”
• No cream on earth will remove eye bags, freckles, or make your hair grow quicker.
• I feel this has to be said – you are who you are and NOTHING you take, rub on or inject will make you white if you’re not already Caucasian by birth.  Don’t believe me?  Ask Sir Alec Jeffries, he who invented DNA profiling at Leicester University.
• Do not buy face stuff off the Internet unless someone you know is already using it with magnificent results.  You have no idea what goes into that little pot of crushed diamonds and sheep placenta [yes really, and that one costs £120.]
• Blue contact lenses over brown eyes will make you look creepy, and not in a good way.  People will stare because they’re wrong on so many levels.

So, believing in the power of natural beauty, how did I end up at one of those Cosmetic Surgery evenings with a chum who must remain nameless ‘on pain of death’?  Well that’s what she told me anyway.  What an eye-opener?  Or not if you’ve had a couple of jabs of Botox, then you can’t quite open your eyes because the muscles are pole-axed and your forehead’s not going to work for months.  Another friend had it done recently and ended up with a 'Roger Moore eyebrow'.

I was sorely tempted by a jab of filler for a line I’ve acquired by doing Elvis impersonations.  I can sizzle sometimes but I’ve never smoked and the dreaded line is fast turning into a groove, despite massaging it with Estee Lauder’s Advance Night Repair serum.  Soon, it will need a magician to remove it.  But you wouldn’t believe where they stick the hypodermic and if you’re having filler …well, you do know it’s got to go somewhere when it breaks down, don’t you?

Adding to the debate for aesthetic surgery, my eye fell on a leaflet detailing the full work-up on laser hair removal.  Read carefully Ravens for the total-body package includes your lady garden and transcends the whole “smooth as a baby’s bum” feeling, permanently.  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry so I carefully replaced the price leaflet in the rack and selected some alternative reading material whilst my anonymous friend was poked about by a hypo-happy doctor.  Did you know there’s a fantastic new treatment for haemorrhoids?

Tip of the Blog:  Just in time for Halloween, a Raven turned up on Merlin last night looking very spruce and all demonic in tatty feathers. Who knows what the episode was about but I watch it religiously, utterly fascinated by Colin Morgan’s ability to disguise his gorgeous Northern Irish accent with a weird-kind-of-anal-English voice.  Pity, because Merlin was Welsh.

Raven

Nostalgia's for wimps ...

Apologies dear Raven chums for not keeping you posted on my transition from the living nightmare that remained Job1 to the bosom of Job2.  There are no real excuses save a massive attack of nostalgia for the smells and sounds of the Retail Cathedral in all it's pre-festive glory,  and so I dropped by yesterday to wave and gloat, as anyone would on a free Saturday.

Did the management look happy?  No.  Or any of my Raven chums - were they filled with glee?  No.  And the customers?  Well the place was rammed as usual but I didn't stick around, it was too stressful after a very long week.  Superficially - and this may sound like I'm deranged - but set against the terror of discovering my new job is a crock of poo;  Job1 seems quite a doddle when viewed with 20/20 hindsight.  But this is only a temporary abhorration caused by exhaustion and being a bit weepy because I now can't afford to have my roots done before Christmas. But at least I can fly and with a strong wind under my wings, looking like a badger in a posh frock won't be so bad. 

So, I'm perched on a spire overlooking the new world I inhabit and will be filling you in on the dramas unfolding beneath.  Is it me or has it been a bumpy ride to Halloween for everyone this year ???

Tip of the Blog:  I thought I had spots in front of my eyes but my PC screen seems to have an infestation.  I'll be back once I've dealt with it.

Raven

The Phantom Menace

In the final death throes of my ultimate shift, I was praying that one piece of administration had been overlooked.  The buttock-clenching ‘exit interview’ and as the seconds ticked by and I pulled on my jacket after exchanging hugs all round, the management piped up with false shock and horror,

“I’ve forgotten to do your exit interview!!!”

“Okay … bye.”

“No, you have to do it.”  If I'd let rip, it would've come out like this.

“It’s over so you can do it for me …”

"NO!  You have to do it.  You can do it now if you like … and it’ll only take ten minutes.”  As if.

Anyone who knows anything about the conflict between computers and human kind will understand there are ten real minutes in which to make a cup of tea and relax, or a computer ten minutes in which you could start a war on several fronts.  I declined her offer because I needed a staff purchase involving another hour of unpaid mucking about at the management’s behest.  Apply this simplified equation equalling the average days worked since I started in the RC:

4 shifts a week x 52 weeks x 4 = 832

For each shift, add an additional 30 minutes required for pratting about, bag checks, purse searches … all unpaid.  In that time, even though I’d signed out, I would serve customers and I swear she used to slow down if we were waiting to leave.  She once signed me in six minutes late on a freezing cold morning because my eye shadow wouldn’t dry and I had to go into the back and reapply it – a real ‘head in the microwave moment’.  And let’s not forget all the buses she’s made me miss.  Roughly, I’m owed £1,456.00 in unpaid hours.  Anyway, I heard myself say it …

“I’ll be in town early tomorrow – I’ll do it then.”  And instantly regretted it.

I needed a cattle prod to wake me the following morning and after a valiant effort made it back to the Retail Cathedral and sat expectantly in front of the computer selecting my 1 – 5 choices for the endless questions: Did I get adequate training? Were my needs met? What did I think of Human Remains?  After the required ten minutes I’d had enough and was ticking boxes at random.  The final question was brilliant “would you tell us your new employer’s name – we promise we won’t contact them?”  Too right you won’t.

And as I completed my final staff purchase, I asked when I would know about my September bonus products – I’d been there, I was entitled and it’s all about the principle.  Y’know what she said?

“I won’t know how to process it because you’ve left.”

“Well I don’t care about the mechanics – you wrote Absinthe’s off when she left.”

And the final blow?  She delivered it just as expected.

“By the way, you’ve had all your holidays, yes?"

“Oh yeah.”

“Well you’ll have it taken out of your final salary.”  I wanted to yell.

“I don’t care … I just want to leave.”  And I did, head held high just as the tannoy broke the serenity of an uneventful Saturday morning.

"THIS IS A CUSTOMER ANNOUNCEMENT"

Startled by the volume, the only thing on my mind was "Oh God … someone in Topshop’s broken a nail."

Tip of the Blog:  I got home in time to watch possibly the most tedious of the Star Wars movies, The Phantom Menace.  It has spectacular highs - Liam Neeson grabbing the tongue of JarJar Binks - and equally crushing lows - when little Annie Skywalker bodily droops as he's told he's not going to be a Jedi. But my favourite bit, which is worthy of a Carry On script, happens when the rebel alliance storm the palace on Naboo.  Some wag shouts "Where can we find the Viceroy?" to which Natalie Portman replies "He's in the throne room"  Yes, of course he is ...

Raven

The CEO's Dilemma ...

My final two shifts remain a bit blurred, like car headlights in the rain.  Job 2 required I be at their premises, paying attention from 7.00am and had any of my neighbours been watching they would have seen me leaving the nest in a smart grey suit and returning much later in black lycra and feathers; drooping at the beak.  I spent most of the day dodging the upper-most regional management who was heavily engaged in the critical primping of each bay i.e. she'd stare at it hard with her laser vision, check for dust and detritus, pull a sour face, poke stuff around and issue orders.  And with eighteen bays that's a lot of bitter lemons to suck.  And for what?

Day One - or Ground Zero as I preferred to call it - had also been set aside for The Visit.  I may have mentioned it before but in retail terms, the ultimate-top-of-the-pile CEOs are treated like Gods in Ancient Greece.  Feted and feared in equal measure, they are the final word and once their anger is incurred, it's bad for everyone as it cascades down from the top.  Frankly, I find this fear response quite ridiculous because during my time with Miss Selfridge, I had the chance to work with a future general manager of the London store who loved Deep Purple and Tubular Bells, and went pub crawling with his mates in an old hearse.  Great bloke ... you should have seen his air-guitar version of Smoke on the Water.

However, as we awaited the arrival of the CEO of ]'0r34[ France, I was expecting a Brad Pitt look-alike.  Imagine the strength of our group disappointment when he looked and talked more like Mr Bean than the continental version of the sun-god Apollo.  Our poor customers ... to create the buckets of energy required for this visit, the management had consumed triple espressos and were sporting mad glints in their eyes as they ran around moving stuff they'd moved the day before.  Finally, when the party landed outside, they all crossed their legs and curtseyed.  Not me ... I was chained to the till, taking money and generally being pleasant to no-one because anyone with any sense had felt the darkness descend and nipped to Boots instead.

Sadly, he didn't say 'Bonjour' to me, let alone 'Bon Chance'.  Well he wouldn't, would he?  I was well under his radar and considering he stayed only ten long minutes, I don't think the management got a word in edgeways either.  Next, he was escorted over to our sister branch, stayed for five minutes and then left saying he had a train to catch i.e. "ze premiere avion chez moi ce soir matey!"  Speaks volumes eh?

Oh come on!  What a dilemma?  Ensconced in a gloriously appointed office sur le Continent surrounded by glamour and croissants, or stuck in a provincial city touring the shops with a bunch of retail managers.  Which would you choose?

Tip of the Blog:  So you think I've left?  This is Hotel California and although I've checked out ... I don't seem to be able to leave.  More tomorrow ...

Raven

Are there rabbits in the alcohol?

As Day Four came to a quiet close, I found the time to reflect on my final late shift.  I'd been running around like a headless chicken as directed by the under-management in a vain attempt to find any glaring stock errors before the outsourcing contractors appeared on their magic carpets the following morning at 6.00 am.  I'd got our Henry Hoover dragging his heels behind me and was sucking up enough wood-wool basket filling to pad out a crib for the Baby Jesus.  The UM herself was mulling over the makeup stand, rotating the company's exacting plan by 360 degrees because she couldn't work out which side to start from.  After much exasperation, we decided to put the lipsticks exactly where they should have been after July's refit ... on the other end of the wall.

And in a moment of weakness, she asked if I would miss my job in the Retail Cathedral.  I had to admit that I wouldn't although I will miss her personally, her hysterical sense of the ridiculous and the fact she could sell reindeer poo to the Eskimos; she is also a very genuine person and almost an honorary Raven because of one beautiful incident on Day Three. 

The UM has taken on the onerous task of training my replacement who is definitely not short in the brain department but when tired and with only three days to go, she's had a lot to take in; not only in the noble art of cosmetics sales but also in the composition of our world-renowned products.  Except we'd had one of those infamous Missives From Head Office regarding the alcohol content of our products brought about by the current sensitivity around certain religious requirements.  I usually get around the situation with tact and diplomacy.  When asked "Does it contain alcohol?"
I respond by placing my hands together and trying to look like a chemistry teacher.
"Yes, it does.  But it's not the kind you can drink."  I omit to say "And if you do, it will severely damage your life expectancy."

On further inspection of the memo, it assured us that our alcohol is ethically sourced and therefore giving a 'softer' feeling for our customers' enjoyment.  Shaking my head at the rank stupidity of that remark, the UM instructed me and my replacement that every purchaser should be given the benefit of this information.  My initial reaction was,
"You're kidding me right?"  One look at her face told me she was entirely serious but I had to know.
"Did you do chemistry at school?  Any science ... at all?"
"Not really.  Well ... a bit but I didn't really pay much attention to be honest."

Happily I did but to save time I've nicked the correct chemical formula for alcohol fermentation from the internet.  It is: C6H12O6 --> 2 C2H5OH +2 CO2 + 2 ATP + heat, which demonstrates how sugar, in the form of glucose, ferments into the end product which makes perfume, deodorant, everything evaporate except alcohol-free perfume oil etc.  So, ploughing gently on, I asked the next question with care.
"Erm ... how do you think alcohol can be made 'softer'?  Fluffy even?" Shrugging, she replied. 
"They grow the sugar cane in nicer soil ... maybe?"
"How about adding a bit of rabbit fur to the equation?"
"Maybe ..."  I made her swear an oath over a tub of body cream to remain silent on this secret addition to the formula.
"You won't ever mention this to a chemistry teacher will you? Please?"

Tip of the Blog:  Day Two started well with a trip to the bank for a change run and a good half hour reprieve in the open air.  Bitter experience tells us that calling ahead to Barclay's cuts no ice in the speed department so with time to kill, I watched the tele.  Forget the pristine floor - my beady eyes rested on the sofas in the waiting area and when I got up, my feathers looked like I'd been rolled in rabbit fluff and dandruff.  We've got a Henry if you want to borrow it ...

 Raven

The Final Countdown

Devoted fans of ITV4’s daytime offerings such as The Professionals and The Sweeney might be of the generation who, like me, grew up in front of a tiny television stuck in the corner of the front room.  Every Thursday night, I abandoned food, drink and homework for the thrilling theme music of Thunderbirds and adding to the drama, we were treated to snippets of puppet action, the hypnotic eyes of The Hood and the voice of Jeff Tracy dramatically counting down from “Five!”  A bit like my last week in the Retail Cathedral … Shift No5 found me looking like Lady Penelope and smelling like Parker, locked in the boiling stockroom for three hours counting shower gels conscious of the looming presence of our annual stock-take.  I counted boxes of individual products with miniscule numbers etched on their wee bottoms until my eyes felt like raw meatballs.

I was having so much fun I nearly missed my bus and certainly wasn’t going to run in heels.  Not clutching an enormous bouquet of South African exotic blooms, a large Gregg’s bloomer, my uniform and a handbag big enough to unbalance the Woolwich Ferry.  In the precious quiet of the back seat, I was listening to Edna O’Brien talking about her autobiography, The Country Girl, and something she said really stuck a chord with my inner blogger “You have to learn to love the things you write about.”  So …after a year of writing from my Raven’s perspective and with only four more shifts to complete I’m finally learning to love the job that’s almost driven round the bend.

No need to engage ‘panic mode’ – I’ve not changed my mind or written a begging letter to the management.  We certainly won’t be waving a tearful farewell to each other as I escape into the fresh air.  Oddly, I’m beginning to miss the management and the dying orchid plants already.  However, I won’t miss the monstrous kids …

On Friday I’d been to see The [new] Sweeney with Grimy and loved it.  Don’t tell anyone but I felt liberated by it’s swearing, heavy drinking, fast driving, gratuitous violence and odd sex scenes that were a feature of the classic John Thaw/Dennis Waterman dynamic in the seventies.  And what a fabulous antidote it is to the frustrations of modern life where we spend so much time repressing our real feelings, resulting in chronic face ache.  And when a Somalian youth started dragging a makeup chair across the newly tiled floor, I abandoned my customer-facing face on Saturday and spoke as Jack Regan would, thus.

“Oi! You! Stop that.”

It startled the hell out of everyone nearby and won’t get me 100% score on a ‘mystery shop’ but in a sneaky kind of way, I loved the passion expressed in that one moment when ‘authentic Raven’ came roaring up to the surface.  Thankfully … freedom is a few short days away.

Tip of the Blog:  I hesitate to mention The Sweeney as I’m still having flashbacks of Ray Winstone lying on a settee in his underpants.  I may need therapy sometime in the future– in the meantime, bring on The Sweeney II.

Raven