Free Running Dogs

So I was walking to work, as is customary when one has work to walk to, when I noticed an ominous bright red sign nailed to the front door of a house. Having walked the exact same path almost everyday for the past six months, I was surprised I hadn't seen it before but, then again, having walked the exact same path almost everyday for the past six months, I'm no longer in the habit of paying much attention to my surroundings. Funnily enough this also explains why I'm fairly certain that it did not, in fact, read "Caution: free running dogs".

On "A Tale of Two Cats" and the Creative Process

As you may have gathered from the dearth of new content on this blog over the course of the past two months, I have been rather busy. Although I would like to say that I've been doing lots of exciting things and that the majority of my time has not been spent drawing pictures of Mona and Tilly, I'm afraid I would be lying. Well, that's not strictly true. For instance, I have been spending a fair amount of time selling stationery, or at least standing around waiting for the opportunity to sell stationery whilst the rest of Britain sunbathes, and I did finally receive a job offer, which was more exciting than I care to admit. But then again, it is equally true to say that I have indeed spent an inordinate amount of time drawing pictures of Mona and Tilly.

Confessions of a Sales Assistant: The Battle Against Automatism

Although it pains me to say it, I have been working in the retail industry for long enough now that I am no longer quite as incredulous at the level of contempt that the British public holds for sales assistants. There was a time, for instance, when the blatant discourtesy displayed by certain customers induced amazement as much as it did irritation - is she really discussing her private parts over the phone whilst handing me money for her daughter's birthday card? As time passed, this amazement gradually subsided and the irritation came to the fore - believe me, lady, I'd rather spend as little time taking your money from you as you'd like to take giving it to me, but I can only do so as fast as the cash register allows me to. Bitch. Nevertheless, as even more time passed, I found that I had become so accustomed to the occasional rude or disdainful customer that I could no longer even muster the energy to feel irritated by their behaviour. Meh. Now that I think about it, I suppose I had become institutionalised, for want of a better word. I had become the mindless automaton that those customers believed that I was all along. And yet today, in one fell swoop, one such customer changed everything.

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 #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.

The Apex of Boredom

In the week or so since my last entry, I have been busy being not particularly busy, by which I mean I have been at work. Okay, perhaps that is a little flippant; I am merely trying to point out that the day-to-day life of a sales assistant is at the whim of his customers. And as I have come to learn over the past few days, the vast majority of this particular sales assistant's customers have better things to do during the middle of the week than buy greeting cards for distant relatives, not to mention even more distant occasions, that they really couldn't care less about. Not that I blame them; after all, such trivial concerns can usually wait until the weekend when instead of trying to find time, they are trying to fill it. However, as a direct result, this means that working during the week can often be a particularly tedious affair and this brings me to the crux of this post: boredom. Now before you decide to stop reading, I would just like to mention that it is not my aim to induce crippling ennui in the minds of all those who read this (although, as a sort of rudimentary disclaimer, I should also say that I cannot rule out the possibility of such an ironic eventuality). No, rather this is a meditation born of boredom, on what it means to be bored.