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When I got out the shower the other day, after another blast up Pen Y Fan, I picked up my scratchy grandma towel that must be nearly as old as me, and realised that the rise in body exfoliation products must be really highly correlated with the tendency to soften-the-fuck out of everything with fabric conditioner.
I got a great parcel at the end of last week. The chocolate is long gone, the spices will soon be consumed, and the Big Red chewing gum will last me for months, even given my unprecedented luxurious chomping of two sticks simultaneously when I first got it. Thank you![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
amiga500.
I really don't like working with the public sometimes - they're demanding and stroppy. One woman came and shouted at me because she thought the canned music was awful. One thing I've noticed recently is the number of people writing into gardening magazines complaining about the lack of knowledge displayed by staff in garden centres. This annoys the fuck out of me. I'm paid minimum wage, rather like someone in Tescos. People come in and ask me all sorts of questions. Not just about plants (which I have about a 95% answer rate) but also on what vegetables to grow, strimmer accessories, books, garden furniture, and so on. All of which eventually get answered - if not by me, then by one of my specialist colleagues.
Now, bearing in mind the minimum-wageness of my job, what do people actually expect from me? Would you go into Tesco and expect the shelf stacker to choose your food, tell you how to cook it, select a suitable accompanying wine, then pick out some clothes that would be suitable for the sort of entertaining function you were planning. No, you would not. So why expect it from me? Seriously, customers, start paying more than a couple of quid for a tray of plants, and you might just get enough profit pumping through the system for Wyevale to employ people who are motivated enough to care.
Or then again, maybe not. Either way, you get what you pay for inlifethis consumerist artifice.
In other news, some asshat also posted comments on Octomule's LJ wobbling at me for leaving the sprog unattended in the bath. They posted the same comment twice, coincidentally stopping just after I turned on the IP address stalking function. I hate anonymous comments, especially based on selecting half a dozen random words from 3 paragraphs.
I got a great parcel at the end of last week. The chocolate is long gone, the spices will soon be consumed, and the Big Red chewing gum will last me for months, even given my unprecedented luxurious chomping of two sticks simultaneously when I first got it. Thank you
amiga500.I really don't like working with the public sometimes - they're demanding and stroppy. One woman came and shouted at me because she thought the canned music was awful. One thing I've noticed recently is the number of people writing into gardening magazines complaining about the lack of knowledge displayed by staff in garden centres. This annoys the fuck out of me. I'm paid minimum wage, rather like someone in Tescos. People come in and ask me all sorts of questions. Not just about plants (which I have about a 95% answer rate) but also on what vegetables to grow, strimmer accessories, books, garden furniture, and so on. All of which eventually get answered - if not by me, then by one of my specialist colleagues.
Now, bearing in mind the minimum-wageness of my job, what do people actually expect from me? Would you go into Tesco and expect the shelf stacker to choose your food, tell you how to cook it, select a suitable accompanying wine, then pick out some clothes that would be suitable for the sort of entertaining function you were planning. No, you would not. So why expect it from me? Seriously, customers, start paying more than a couple of quid for a tray of plants, and you might just get enough profit pumping through the system for Wyevale to employ people who are motivated enough to care.
Or then again, maybe not. Either way, you get what you pay for in
In other news, some asshat also posted comments on Octomule's LJ wobbling at me for leaving the sprog unattended in the bath. They posted the same comment twice, coincidentally stopping just after I turned on the IP address stalking function. I hate anonymous comments, especially based on selecting half a dozen random words from 3 paragraphs.
