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