Mongolia Maybe??

Taken to task about yesterday’s blog I feel the need to explain my fascination for the great Asiatic plains.  In fact, they wouldn’t have entered my Raven’s brain at all without the BBC2 programme ‘China on Four Wheels’ and Justin Rowlatt’s fascinating report on the incredible city of Kangbashe; built for millions and occupied by no-one. Reminiscent of the Retail Cathedral on a Tuesday - take a look at this if you dare.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sLnR2JIW3pA&feature=fvwrel

I’m also a devotee of the splendid British explorer, Benedict Allen and his book ‘Edge of Blue Heaven’ charting a 1000 mile lone crossing of the Gobi Desert – with camels.  And on this epic journey across Mongolia, he was welcomed at various yurts and fed as if he was royalty.  One of his hosts produced a spectacular feast which leaned heavily on stuffed entrails, resembling warm Klingon Gak! [pron. Ghaaakh.]

I’ll give him his due - Mr Allen manned up and ate like a champion.  Afterwards he uttered some immortal words which chimed with my inner predator [not verbatim though, my memory's not that good].

“For any vegetarian wishing to undertake this journey, be aware you’ll only have about forty two days left to live unless you adapt.  Because that’s how long it takes to starve to death.”

And remembering his immortal words made me laugh out loud as I rounded up all the bags of unidentified meat from the freezer hoping to eke out a vegetarian tagine.  Nigella labels all her leftovers, I don't and was delighted to find seven Lidl meatballs, two gluten free sausages [sorry Hemlock], a chunk of scraggy lamb and some unidentified poultry – it was really tasty served on a bed of rice with some crusty bread.

My ‘roadkill casserole’ would fit in well with the cuisine of the eastern Asiatic republics – if only that was the venue for our combined ‘leaving do and staff incentive meal’ this coming Saturday night.  Instead, I’ll be treading carefully over an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet washed down with lots of Tsingtao and keeping my beak buttoned as all the available management will be turning out for this one.  Please help me … someone???

Tip of the Blog:  Can anyone explain why Carluccio’s scrambled eggs taste wonderful, and surprisingly like eggs should taste.  Mine just taste like scrambled stuff … free range of course.

 Raven

Send me where you like ...

At last, the Raven appeared as an inky black brushstroke soaring against a wild sky.  She had only stirred her graceful wings once the rain storms abated, giving way to the searing winds that scoured vegetation from exposed outcrops of rock.  Brutish gusts blew soil into whipping tornadoes which stripped the skin from anyone foolish enough to be exposed to its lash.  She gave a rough cry on sighting the Buddhist prayer mound occupying a deserted hillock, and turned to descend at speed.  Her ebony wings came out of a steep dive and flew low scuffing at the long grass of the Steppe; the endless and ever renewing Mongolian grassland.  She was a long, long way from home and sensing danger, rose once more into the air spying the place marked on the map with a large X.

Circling above the settlement, Raven tested the thermals and picked up a casual cylinder of warmth elevated  from the merest breath of a dung fire.  A skilful twist of her wing-tip feathers brought her in to land on a gnarled fence post.  Famished, she considered the sparse remains of a goat, mummified and inedible.  A terrible scream split the earth and the Alabaster Sorceress loomed up as if crafted from pure chalk; her aspirin white skin enhanced with woad and wax.  Raven had kept the dark witch waiting and the hour was upon them.  Flicking blood red hair from her face, the Sorceress spoke, her voice muted and lisping, lips held close together by a steely ring.

“What brings you here Raven?”

“There’s magic afoot and I have been summoned.”  The impassive face turned sour as bitter cherries.

“Well sign in then and put some goddam makeup on.”  Raven shrugged and knew then it would be another one of those interminable days.

Y’know I’ve loved working with Wonky for the past year, in a sadomasochistic kind of way.  You can’t tell when she’s having a good day because she’s so controlled and when it’s bad, don’t we all know about it?  Well no, actually – it seems it’s just me who is the temporary repository of her misery.  Have I been sent to Coventry … oh that’s far too close for comfort and it has an Ikea.  I’m in the retail equivalent of Outer Mongolia, as far removed from the Shires as from the Moon.  It all started when I made the mistake of asking after her holiday.  Frankly, I was alarmed at the ferocity of her reply.

“I’m better now I’m not acting up.” Now as she’s not part robot, cyborg or toaster her problem had to be something less mechanical.

“Sorry?  Acting up?  What as?” I quipped.  Hands on hips, she hissed.

“I have been Acting Assistant Manager in case you haven’t noticed.”  Obviously, I hadn’t and while I’m on the subject, she’s not much of an actor either.  My cousin is brilliant but he’s been to RADA and Guildford.

Something told me I should shut up and clean a glass shelf or twenty but sometimes you can’t help yourself, can you?  It wasn’t long before she explained in less than friendly terms.

“Listen [you] – while the management has been on secondment, the under-management dared to go on holiday and the temporary management has been interviewing for your replacement, I’ve been Acting Up.”  The demon in me responded with less than my usual caution.

“Did they pay you for it?”

“No!!! But it’s a big responsibility and I’ve taken it very seriously.”

I wish I’d said “Then you’ve just been yourself with a bigger chip on your shoulder.”  Happily a customer needing counselling wandered into my orbit thus saving my bacon but since that moment, I have noticed a certain chill in the atmosphere … something akin to the presence of a super-massive black hole.

At the dawn of the 21^st century, are we still practising the noble art of snubbing our co-workers?  I hope not because it’s bullying and I’ve been there before … as a temporary secretary in the 1980’s dreading the first Monday morning of each new assignment.  Could I hack the job?  Would they talk to me?  Mainly, it all turned out well and I'm nurturing the feeling that my next job will be a vast improvement on this one.  So, with only six shifts remaining in the Retail Cathedral, I may be in silence, out of pocket and facing an uncertain future but I’m happy.  That’s 99% of the battle, isn’t it?

Tip of the Blog:  Has anyone else noticed the amazing similarity in looks between Neil Oliver, who last night tucked into the sort of pickled entrails that only a true devotee of my ‘roadkill casserole’ would want to try, and the new face in New Tricks, Dennis Lawson?  There’s only a good haircut and a few years between them …

Raven

Bubbles of Happiness

So, it's true.  My retail nightmare is finally crawling towards a conclusion of sorts and I have to admit to a small level of 'disturbance in the Force' as Master Yoda would put it.  You see when you resign from a job that's had you in a holding pattern for four years - like a jumbo waiting to land at Heathrow - strange things start to happen and feelings arise akin to euphoria, like little bubbles of happiness escaping to the top of a champagne glass only to be balanced out by a bucket full of panic ever-present in the background.  Every time I try to celebrate my new role with Job2, I'm gripped by a cold shower of anxiety regarding Job1.  Could I be suffering from Survivor Guilt, I wonder?

According to Raven Sandra, who's back in the Retail Cathedral after a period of self-imposed exile, this period of awkwardness will pass in about a month's time along with the desire to incinerate the disgusting tea-towels and disinfect makeup brushes with bleach.  Although she lacks formal medical qualifications, Sandra's confident in her assessment of my mental conflict especially as I've agreed to stay a week longer than is strictly necessary due to a pleading request from the temporary management who said,
"We've got no staff until I've recruited four new ravens, it's stocktake and audit all in the same week and we failed last time, and it will be horrible if you don't stay and help us out of this mess, and we can all go out together before the under-management goes on maternity leave, please ..."
"Oh go on then." I muttered grudgingly.  Personally, I'm pleased for the Government who will have a few less bodies to count into the unemployment statistics.

Putting a poster in the window advertising vacancies draws its own set of weirdos into the store and in 8 out of 10 cases, they've made a beeline for me with a whole heap of questions,
"What's the hours?"
"The Retail Cathedral is open from nine am to nine pm at Christmas and beyond, so it's anything inbetween."
"Would I have to work late?"
"Oh yeah ... but there's more than one role on offer so it will vary." Day to day, week by week, until you go insane.
"Can I leave a CV?"
"No, you'll need to apply on line."  This puts a lot of good people off because it takes ages.
"Why?"
"WHY?  Because your CV may not reflect your real abilities."  Also the law dictates we have to keep them for six months, then the stock room would need to be knocked through into the next county.  That's why!
"Is it permanent?"
"Does it say 'permanent' in the window?"
"Dunno ... didn't read it"  Understandable. I've not read it either.
"Perhaps it isn't then but if you get through the trial period, it may lead to something more permanent.  Oh, and we'd like you to be fully available if possible."
"I'm a student - does that count?"
"Not in the 'fully available' category but you should apply anyway."
"Will I have to wear make up and stuff?" [surely my favourite question so far ...]
"Yes because we are high-end purveyors of makeup and skincare products and your face is our fortune." Please don't look at my ravaged beak today.  I went blackberrying again and am scarred for life ...

And yesterday, one final Princess Pushy marched up to me and asked all of the above followed by,
"Do you know what the pay rate is for these jobs?"
"No sorry, I don't."
"Do you mean you don't know what you earn?"
"Indeed I do." Not nearly enough for all this aggro.  "But I'm not at liberty to discuss it."  This really got her back up.
"Why not?"
"My salary is my business and irrelevant to customers."
"I'm not a customer - I want a job."
"Well why don't you apply for it and see what happens."
"I'm not going to apply until I know what I'll be earning."  And so it went round and round until I was so happy, I went in the staff room and ate a whole bag of bubbly Maltesers. Yum.

Tip of the Blog:  I've added a whole new dimension to fairy cake making thanks to Lorraine Pascale.  Last Monday night, she made an amazing chocolate breeze block and decorated it with a jumbo sharing bag of Maltesers - you know, the one that needs two people to lift it onto a seat of its own in the cinema.  Anyway, I made a batch of Nutella buns and gripped by culinary creativity, blobbed buttercream on the top and carefully placed a chocolate ball in the centre of each. Alphonse in his delight described them later as a plate of 8oobs!  I'd like to post a picture for you but I've just eaten the last one ...

Raven

 

Lost in So Many Ways

You'd think that, as a Raven, I've been gifted with exceptional navigational skills when it comes to finding my way around the UK without a satnav and under normal conditions, all I need is a thermal current under my wings and my beak pointing in the right direction. I'm even chilled about circumnavigating the M25 in the rush hour ... but I've never been to Bedford before, until last Friday, when I left Grunilda's nest after a delicious teatime treat, bound for the theatre.  

I can be forgiven for leaving the driving to Grimy and dismissing the need for a paper map saying,
"How many theatres can there be?"  But I can't be let off the hook for ignoring an email from the play's writer and director, Stephen Loveless, actually telling me the correct venue especially as he's responsible for teaching me some of the noble arts of Creative Writing.  Maybe Map Reading would've been more appropriate. Damn!

Anyway, getting to Bedford was a doddle and after driving past the catchily titled "Indiya" curry house at least three times, we found a free car park near the Corn Exchange.  I bet you've had a moment after a long car journey where all the vehicle's occupants pointed to the nearest large building and shouted in unison "That's it!" before being overcome by a sense of great relief that public facilities are nearby.  And as we dashed to the front door, hopeful of finding a friendly face and a poster for our play we were disappointed. Instead of "Asena" an Out of the Box production, we found Tin Lizzy ... that fine tribute band dedicated to the works of Phil Lynott.  Oops.

Grimy made a break for the Gents while Grunilda nursed her aching feet and I was surrounded by bouncers trying to explain where I thought we were supposed to be.  "Never 'eard of it!" they said. Eleven iPhones and still clueless! As we were early at this juncture it didn't matter being misdirected by the locals and so set off in the vague direction of where there might be another theatre and honestly, if we'd carried on walking we would have found one in Norwich by now.  Anyway, the local branch of Ladbrokes were very helpful and sent us back towards the Corn Exchange, and some friendly students speculated it might be the school theatre and when they all pointed in different directions I finally appreciated just how lost we were.

Grunhilda's feet were giving her terrible gyp by the time we got back to the Corn Exchange and I was about to give up and buy tickets for Tin Lizzy when a nice chap said "Follow me, I'll take you around to the school myself because it's a 8ugger to find."  Praise be ... and so, on a beautiful Summer evening we finally made it to the theatre just a little bit late to see "Asena" which is a moving, mesmerising performance by the actress Genevieve Cleghorn and should not be missed.  I can only share these words from the flyer ...

"ASENA is a one-woman play exposing the horrors of sex trafficking through the personal story of a young Albanian woman whose life became irrevocably changed after being trafficked into the UK."  And please take a look at the reviews at:
http://www.bedfordshire-news.co.uk/Lifestyle-and-leisure/Theatre/Powerful-drama-tackles-disturbing-issue-of-today-31082012.htm

The reviews don't really do justice to Genevieve and Stephen's work but do go some way to telling a horrifying story of one young woman's experiences.  I urge those of you in the region of the Corpus Christi Playroom in Cambridge to get down there between the 4th and 8th of December and show your support.  Or contact outofthebox2010ltd@gmail.com for more information.  Better still, if you run a small theatre and are looking for exceptional plays, please book this one.

Tip of the Blog:  After a lovely week with my feet up in the garden, I've returned to the Retail Cathedral and as I walked in the door my Raven heart sank through the floor.  The stock room I'd religiously tidied before I left was a tip, the staff room was full of detritus and my Keep Calm and Carry On mug had been left lip-down in the awful sink where someone empties the mop bucket.  Worse, my early start this Saturday to accommodate Alphonse's birthday curry had been replaced by a late shift.  I finally realised I've lost the battle with nearly weeping with frustration, I've decided to leave them to their misery and quit.

 Raven

 

BTW …

I’ve got the whole weekend off with nothing to do.  Alphonse has popped over to Nottingham to commune with his chums and talk jazz.  Nice.  The shopping’s away and cakes are cooling on the table – dinner is vegetarian.  The Nest is spruced, washing up done, two hours and 20 minutes until the new season of Dr Who starts and I’m bored.  Granted, I had the opportunity to work today, in store with the ‘worried well’ and I turned it down.  So, you see, I’ve not gone mad at all.

 Raven

Reasons to be cheerful, one, two ...

Three hundred actually.  In the past, I might have mentioned the Raven Family as a whole has been gifted with ‘luck in small things’.  Not the major luck associated with a lottery win or I would’ve told you just before skipping the country for the South of France, but the kind of luck where timely meetings or golden opportunities have added up to a very big thing.  Life’s 'natural luck' I suppose you’d call it.
Yesterday, while I was waiting in Carluccio’s for a takeout cappuccino and strawberry meringue, I noticed some very attractive patrons staring and pointing in my direction, smiling. 
‘My lucky day’ I thought.  They’ve noticed how perky and vivacious I feel on this lovely morning.  And so you can imagine how fortunate I felt when I discovered an enormous delivery of pigeon poop right across the back of my newest, totally trendy jacket.  Luckily, it’s washed out unlike Sandra’s cranberry juice from the front of my white jeans.

I also felt uniquely lucky when my ancient artifact of a mobile phone finally gave up the ghost, taking all my contacts with it [don't email me - I know all the tricks of the trade].  Granted, the battery’s had no juice in it for the last 12 months but I was hanging on because it was simple, light and no strain on my nerves [bless you Nokia].  So I wandered into the Orange shop on Bank Holiday Monday and spied a white Blackberry I thought might do the trick, until I encountered the sales assistant.  She was very tactful but her face said
“What do you want one of those old fogey phones for when you can have this fabulous new one … in white?”  She might as well have shouted “Abracadabra!!”
So, my luck is in and I’m a fully functioning member of society again with a fake iphone and precious few contacts.  Chatting to the Next Doors last night and bemoaning the absolutely miniscule size of the Galaxy’s instruction manual, I asked them to text me their numbers.  The details arrived promptly accompanied by the question “I thought you were an IT whizz?”  Could be … but the nice people at Samsung don’t know that.  And why are they nice?  Allegedly, they paid their $1M fine to Apple in five cent pieces … in three truckloads.

That’s about the size of our weekly stock delivery to the Retail Cathedral and I’ve been uniquely lucky for the past couple of months not to be rota’d in to put it all away.  I believe this is because the temporary management thinks I’m an idiot.  Every time the under-management allocates me a task i.e. fetch me this, put that away, refill the lip balms, stand on your head etc., the temporary catches me red-handed in a place she doesn’t want me to be. Yesterday, I was collecting stocks of makeup from a particularly cramped area when she shouted for me to return to the shop floor.  I replied,
“But the other one has asked me to do this and, as she’s expecting a chick soon, she can’t climb.  And we’re missing sales not having it on the …”  She cut me off at the pass saying,
“Get out there and clean the blessed makeup stand with Tea Tree wipes. And do customer service, and go on the tills because there’s no-one else to do work except the management.”
So, while I buffed away the cacky foundation and a million sticky paw prints from the stand, I reflected on how amazing it is to have this job.  Another couple of years and I’ll either have invented time travel, or I’ll have gone mad.  Three times over …

Tip of the Blog:  Everyone says “I’ll go mad” at some time in their life, and it’s always a state of mind referred to in the future tense.  Trouble is, by the time you hear yourself say it, you’re already certifiable as I am in the eyes of Frangipani.  Earlier this week I confessed to taking home half of our uniform aprons to wash.  Well, I was asked by the under-management who’s not much cop in the washing and ironing department and it didn't seem that difficult.
Anyway, Frangipani did not mince her words, saying
“Only taking half home doesn’t mean you’ve gone half mad.  You’re nuts!  Do your employers know Queen Victoria has vacated the throne?”
They do indeed.  And I am just too ashamed to admit ironing the offending garments and using a laundry marker to identify which ones are cleanest.  After working for 17 days straight, I’ve not gone mad; I’m only a gibbering wreck of a bird.  Lucky me.

Raven