Every Picture Tells A Story #3

Quite a sight to wake up to.

Small Talk and Customer Service

For the most part, I consider myself to be a fairly good sales assistant; at least from the customer's point of view. That is, of course, assuming that this hypothetical customer is anything like myself, which, admittedly, is rather doubtful seeing as if he was then he'd be much more likely to shop online thereby cutting out the whole bloody "customer service" experience altogether. Nevertheless, for the sake of argument, we shall just have to pretend that although this imaginary customer is like myself, he doesn't have access to the internet and thus, regrettably, has no choice but to do his shopping in shops. But that's okay because although I will smile and say hello, which is more than can be expected from half of the sales assistants I've come across, I won't hassle him, which, coincidentally, is more than can be expected from the other half of the sales assistants I've come across. To me, this is good customer service; friendly but not overbearing. Having said that, I am the first to admit that I could afford to be slightly more conversational with customers and so I have made a concerted effort in recent weeks to improve my small talk, no matter how painful the process.

Every Picture Tells A Story #2

The quiet before the storm. 

On Sebald, Authorial Absence and Dreams

Generally, I'm not one to proclaim favourites. Of course, there are certain things, be it music, film or literature, that I value higher than others, but that is not to suggest that I feel any particular need to rank them. Rather, it is enough to know that I like these things more than those things. This wasn't necessarily always the case. For instance, when I was first "getting" into music, each new "discovery" had the potential to challenge the existing order. In many ways, I suppose this desire to classify and arrange is a very human endeavour, yet when it comes to subjectivity and personal preference, it can be as stifling as it is superfluous. After all, I always used to feel it imperative that I had a single favourite artist who stood above all others in my esteem; an artist whose work would set the benchmark against which I would judge everything else. Given my limited scope of music in general at that point, I guess this made sense, but as time passed and my tastes diversified this model no longer proved effective. And that is a very good thing for if it had been effective, I doubt I'd be listening to half the music that I do these days. As a result, I no longer have a favourite artist; I just let people think that Brian Eno is my favourite. Likewise, I don't have a favourite novel, but for the sake of this post I'm going to let you think that W. G. Sebald's The Rings of Saturn is my favourite.

A Journey Home From Home, Pt. 2

As I stood waiting for the connecting train that would form the second and final leg of my admittedly rather short journey home, it suddenly occurred to me that railway stations are rather odd public spaces. Of course, the layout of a typical station is, for the most part, purely functional; that is to say, it makes perfect sense that any platforms should be located parallel to one another along either side of a set of railway lines. However, as a direct result of this simple logistical design, the passengers waiting on one platform inadvertently face those waiting on the other, and vice versa. This, in itself, isn't particularly odd. That is, until you take in to account the fact that in England we are subject to that most typical of social traits: "English reserve". Indeed, in a country whose populous are conditioned from birth to avoid unnecessary eye contact and outward displays of emotion, it seems almost cruel that railway stations are designed in such a way that people are forced to face each other for often extended periods of time. With this thought firmly in mind, I cautiously surveyed my opponents on the platform opposite and noticed that they, too, were doing the same. And at that precise moment, I couldn't help suppress the feeling that I was in fact standing on the front-line of some kind of bizarre trench war, gazing out across the literal no-man's land of the railway lines at an enemy who was just as helplessly immobilized as I. Thankfully, the train arrived shortly thereafter.

Every Picture Tells A Story #1

This is not what I want to see five minutes before I have to go to work; never have I wanted to sunbathe in a bathroom sink so much. Thanks, Mona.

A Journey Home From Home, Pt. 1

The train is due to arrive at the station at eighteen minutes past three. I had been casually reminding myself of this simple fact every so often for the past few hours. In fact, I had repeated it with such regularity since lunchtime that it had become a personal mantra of sorts. Yet it just so happened that between half past two and five minutes to three, the period of time in which I had planned to leave the house, any thought of train times evaded my attention. And I mean that quite literally, for I am in no doubt that the words "train", "arrive" and "eighteen minutes past three" continued to spontaneously erupt in my consciousness from time to time; they just no longer carried the same weight. I suppose this is an inevitable consequence of repetition. For instance, it is for precisely the same reason that the more we hear a piece of music, whether or not we happen to like it, the less interesting it becomes. Of course, as the clock struck three, this rumination didn't provide any form of consolation in the slightest and so, after a very brief set of goodbyes, I left the house with both a heightened sense of purpose and a pair of untied shoes.