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

I Spy with my little eye ...

Something beginning with V For Valentino, the Italian high-end fashion designer.  In these cash-strapped times when my budget's being pulled in all directions like the legs off a spider, I felt the need for some new bits and bobs to complement my fairly sparse wardrobe.  The other week when I couldn't get my arm in, I had a peck through and culled all the Primani t-shirts, which left me with nothing to go out in.  Plenty to clean the car with but that's another story. Worse, we've got a works do coming up and Krystal has challenged us all to get out of our black feathers and into something a bit wilder.

"Why dress down when you can dress up?"  She always looks lovely and shared her shopping secrets with the team.  Charity shops darling ...

And this is where I found Signor Valentino.  I've been playing I Spy in all the best ones - LOROS, British Heart Foundation, Age UK and Sue Ryder - and found a new, New Look skirt for £2.95 but imagine my total smugness at discovering a pure silk, made in Italy, hand-crafted by elves tie for Alphonse for £1.00.  I don't know about your neck of the woods but our charity shops have become very fashion savvy these days and are almost outdoing the Vintage Clothing trade.  I spent a happy Saturday afternoon in Leicester Cathedral recently with Raven Sandra hunting through piles of clobber, mainly from the 1970's, which I'm sure I wore in my Miss Selfridge days.  I had to be dragged away from an original Biba long dress ... Sandra spied the moth holes, I just saw long grass, straw hats and Harmony hairspray.

Anyway, I skipped back to the nest utterly made up by my purchase and left it in an obvious place where Alphonse couldn't miss its shining colours and top-end artistry.  I was sure he would snatch it up when he saw the pattern number actually woven into the fabric, then scooted off to the Retail Cathedral - we Ravens like quality don't you know?  Several gruelling hours later, I stumbled in the door to be met with a mug of tea and a loaded question hanging in mid-air.

"Who owns that 8loody awful tie?"

"I do ... it's a Valentino."  Y'know, I could feel it in my water that this was going nowhere.

"You'd better give it back to him then."

"I actually picked it up for you, hoping you may part with the mouldy polyester Haymarket Theatre tie you adore [bought circa 1989] and replace it with neckwear of quality."

"Was it expensive."  Said like "is it plutonium???"  I should have been a diplomat.

"In London ... seventy quid maybe.  But a small donation to charity secured it for me."

His face said it all, as if something exciting would happen if he dared wear the offending tie just once ... if only.  So my beak drooped towards the floor and I vowed never to be so taken in by a moment of sartorial elegance again.

One moment which took me utterly by surprise - spying Grimy on tele in the Closing Ceremony at 23:03 precisely if you're watching on iPlayer.  Imagine the impossible odds of seeing a mate who lives just up the road, dressed as an Edwardian gent just before the cannon went off.  Amazing.  And do you know what?  The Valentino tie would have looked just right with his tweed suit.  Not the cap though ...

Tip of the Blog:  I Spied "Accused" on BBC1 on Tuesday night.  Will someone please give Sean Bean a BAFTA for his staggering performance as Tracey/Simon.  Not necessarily for his willingness to be stripped bare on camera, or the outstanding acting, or the fact he's got better legs than I have - but for using his voice to make me fall in love with Tennyson's poem 'The Lady of Shallott."  Sean, I owe you one.

Raven

Adieu to the Games

Shortly, the greatest show on Earth will be over for another four years.  Honestly I’ll be gutted to see it go and for London to return to its usual, grumpy self.  Even from this distance, I’ve been thrilled by the performances of all our athletes, sharing the incredible highs and agonizing lows from the comfort of the nest and I’m now horrified that all we’ve got to look forward to is Strictly Come Dancing.  Worse, in the frenetic build-up to tomorrow night, I’m a little envious of Grimy, whose dogged determination, dancing skills and staying power have bumped him from understudy to cast member of the Closing Ceremony.  Soddit … I’m actually jealous that I can’t be there.

Reflecting back over the last few weeks, I’ve no idea what the likes of Gary Lineker, Jake Humphries and Sue Barker are going to do with themselves but I’ll be buying a bike and pedaling while the sun’s out.  You already know I’ve no natural talent where cycling’s concerned but the Sky-ride looks fun if only I could find the right wheels.  Since they were first invented, I’ve wanted one of those Moulton-style, low slung numbers but it seems I’ve underestimated their trend value because they’re a monumental seventeen hundred quid.  Don’t think the car’s worth that much these days …

So, in the spirit of the Olympics I’m trying to add an element of fitness to the tedium of the working day as the Retail Cathedral is pretty much empty during holiday time.  Post re-fit, we no longer have zig-zagged tables and gondolas in strategic positions so opportunities to Zumba behind the fixtures are limited.  In their place stands a long, white set of tables which are so high maintenance, they need constant cleaning with linen spray to obliterate finger marks from the surface - they smell great though.  One regular customer [who just happens to be pathologist] took one look at the pendulum lights and quipped,
“Perfect conditions for a splenectomy Raven – just whip off the gifts and pass me a scalpel.” 
Being more snow goose than raven in stature, his booming voice reached a woman browsing through the soaps.  Visibly blanching, she grabbed her chicks and ushered them to the door.  No GSOH obviously.

Anyway, we’ve instigated a four-by-four-metre relay race around the central table using a cleanser bottle as a baton, and the first team to make a full circuit without being stopped by the management wins a prize.  It’s quite fun in a sado-masochistic way.  And there are bike wheels present on the new display trolley - as a sporting challenge, I believe it could be involved in a ten-metre-push, if only we could actually push it.  You see, there’s a cunning third leg at the back which means forward or backward movement is virtually impossible without a four-raven team to lift it.  As the bloke from Menkind observed yesterday,

“Can I have those when you’re fed up with them.  They’re just the right size for my fold-up bike.”  Damn him … I bet he’s got a Moulton.  So let’s forget the wheels, they’re purely cosmetic just like the half sized half of a child’s cast iron bath.  Please don’t ask me to explain, just nip along to the RC and look in the window at the forlorn thing, all by itself, draped in union flags … and bags.  Frankly, it could be used in a clean-and-jerk record attempt as it weights as much as it cost and just this once, I’m not telling because I’m embarrassed.  Seriously, you could buy two Moulton bikes … instead, there a chunk of scrap waiting to be collected.

And look out for the stick-on passport stamps in the window - the Chinese one is back to front, and the French one is upside down and backwards.  "Bienvenue" it ain't.

Tip of the Blog:  Wave when you see Grimy – he’s the Edwardian raven with a beard sporting a big grin.  Best not see his Facebook page, the ponytail's all wrong on so many levels.

Raven

Keep your voice down ...

But we've finally been refitted and despite days of nit-picking will be ready for the grand re-opening ceremony on Saturday.  Sadly, and with a touch of irony, it won't be as creative, grand or bone-numbingly expensive as last week's opening ceremony, and I won't enjoy it nearly as much but I do have a new M&S t-shirt for the event.  I've also been threatened with banishment if it's not pristine on the day, so I'll have to find other feathers to hop to the shops in until then.

Actually, the clothes I've been working in for the last two days are sealed in a bag awaiting the washing machine and some serious bio-hazard, muck removing liquid - but at least I was covered.  On day one, Wonky decided to turn up in one of those long t-shirts masquerading as a dress.  Give her some credit, she's got good legs and being determined to show them off isn't a bad thing ... until you're faced by a puritanical regional-sales-manager determined to reign on her parade.  She was taken aside by different management and ordered to cover up because [and I'm not kidding] "there are men present."  Were it in my power, I would award Wonky with a medal for not batting a false eyelash and instead tramping off to H&M to buy some much sexier trousers with a provocative zip up the back to cover her legs. 

These two days of Hell also included a much-anticipated return of our own management monster and in her wake followed the 'almost but not quite top of the pile manager' who is made entirely of dark matter.  You know the type if you've worked in retail for a while - two hundred quid jeans, a snow white never-gonna-get-dirty shirt, mahogany tan and hard-hat hair, the kind you couldn't shift with a bazooka.  And they wonder why we were a bit quiet.  Anyway, as I'd escaped day one on time, I'd missed the global instruction to fetch up early on day two so I arrived what I thought was fifteen minutes early and it turned out I was late.  Doh!  And the monster was waiting for me ... accosting me in the stock room, she said,
"Howareyoufeeling ...and would you mind telling me why you're so late?"
"I don't start until 9.30am.  If that's changed, no-one's let me know."
"You were TOLD last night."
"Actually I wasn't here as I left with Absinthe, on time.  But I'm here now, ten minutes early and ready to go."  This is true and it phased her completely.
"Well, well um..." She blustered a bit.  "We need all your energy to get this finished and if it takes until ten tonight, you'll have to stay."
It would only take that long if all the managers involved stopped telling everyone what to do and got stuck in with the rest of us ... but this is retail and they don't.  It's criminal.  Instead, she stropped off to do conduct Seraphine's punishment session, aka appraisal, and sent her back to us even more dejected and demotivated than before.  Genius!

Also on day two, the IT/systems folk turned up looking all geeky and serious because they knew what lay in store for them.  Trust me, I recognise that look because I had a similar one for ten years, especially when faced with the Herculean task of refitting PCs while other, non-technical people stood by and watched.  Closely.  When it finally came to the point they were up and working, the uber-management piped up,
"Thank god you've put them in right this time.  In [insert a northern city name here] they look rubbish because you've fitted them the wrong way up."  Well, you could have heard a pin drop - even the music turned itself off so we could hear the speccy dude's reply.

"The fault lies entirely with your own company madam.  We discussed this issue at the point of installation and despite our wise counsel and years of experience, your people insisted they be installed incorrectly - so we did as we were asked.  After all, the customer is always right."

Wonky disappeared into the facilities until she'd stopped howling and I mentally awarded the IT guys with Cadbury's Olympic gold medals for bravery in the face of abject stupidity.  Actually, I'm proud to be a geek, even if Woman's Hour this morning confirms only 18% of all IT workers in the UK are women.  And only 0.1% are Ravens.

Tip of the Blog:  It's Frangipani's birthday today and what with Wiggo's astounding victory yesterday it's time to crack that bottle of bubbly lurking in the back of the fridge.  Sadly, I have to return to the asylum ...

Raven