(no subject)
Oh, look, it's me with another rant. Clearly all is spiffing in my workplace.
I get paged. The bookseller concerned asks me to come downstairs and "have a look at something". I choose to believe that this will not be related to his genitals in some way; thankfully, for once, I am correct. There is a Woman sitting in the comfy chairs, looking at magazines.
"She's been here for hours," he hisses.
I am not overly concerned - or indeed at all concerned. Magazines are for looking at. That is their function. Goodness knows, I've perused certain of our American, ah, special interest titles when I thought nobody was looking.
Until I turn the corner of the Info point. Dear Lord, the Woman has a stack of magazines the height of her chair! Worse, this is her third (count them) batch, according to Hissing Bookseller.
This Woman is not browsing. This Woman is *ripping open* the plastic wrappers, spreading the free bag/sunglasses/inflatable Marlon Brando replica etc all over the floor. Not only this, oh no. I must use capital letters.
SHE IS WRITING DOWN ALL THE COMPETITION DETAILS FROM EVERY MAGAZINE IN A LITTLE NOTEBOOK BROUGHT FOR THE PURPOSE.
Then she is discarding the magazine. Clearly, she is an agent of Sauron and must be stopped.
I circle her a few times, giving her the Glarebear Stare. She pretends not to notice. I lie in wait behind her, like a spider, or a ninja, waiting for her to rip open the next one. She does so. *I swoop*. (Imagine that bit in CGI.)
"I'dreallyratheryoudidn'tRIPOPENthemagazinesifyoudonotintendtobuythemmadamthankyousomuch", deftly twitching the article in question from her fingers and pointedly attempting to force the promotional Kodiak wolf or similar back into the wrapper.
She says *nothing*. Shortly afterward she approaches the info point, where I am keeping watch, and pretends to look at some leaflets detailing the happy sparkly fairy fun we have planned for the guttersnipes whose parents are too inbred to devise their own programs of entertainment for their offspring. She would make a rubbish spy, as she is clearly looking for my Happy and Helpful namebadge. As I am not often either, I have discarded this offending item some weeks previously, flushing it down the toilet with maniacal glee.
I am filled with righteous joy and a deep calm as I lean toward her and conspiratorially murmur, "My name is jonnysardonic, and my manager's name is (insert banal appellation here)."
"I'm a regular customer!"
"I have never seen you before in my life."
"I thought you could browse the magazines!"
"That is criminal damage, not browsing, madam."
I think this is a disgusting way to treat customers!"
"Indeed, I would never dream of treating a customer this way. However, you are not a customer, madam; all you have done is destroy my stock and render it unsaleable."
"I'm never coming to this branch of (you *know* where) again!"
"That is correct, madam, because you are barred."
Later I discover that this Woman is known all over the region for being an insufferable nonshopper. Thankfully, I will never see her again in *my* store. This stands out as my most satisfying interaction with a Public, ever.
"I feel really harassed!"
Yes, you dozy bitch. That's because I'm harassing you.
I get paged. The bookseller concerned asks me to come downstairs and "have a look at something". I choose to believe that this will not be related to his genitals in some way; thankfully, for once, I am correct. There is a Woman sitting in the comfy chairs, looking at magazines.
"She's been here for hours," he hisses.
I am not overly concerned - or indeed at all concerned. Magazines are for looking at. That is their function. Goodness knows, I've perused certain of our American, ah, special interest titles when I thought nobody was looking.
Until I turn the corner of the Info point. Dear Lord, the Woman has a stack of magazines the height of her chair! Worse, this is her third (count them) batch, according to Hissing Bookseller.
This Woman is not browsing. This Woman is *ripping open* the plastic wrappers, spreading the free bag/sunglasses/inflatable Marlon Brando replica etc all over the floor. Not only this, oh no. I must use capital letters.
SHE IS WRITING DOWN ALL THE COMPETITION DETAILS FROM EVERY MAGAZINE IN A LITTLE NOTEBOOK BROUGHT FOR THE PURPOSE.
Then she is discarding the magazine. Clearly, she is an agent of Sauron and must be stopped.
I circle her a few times, giving her the Glarebear Stare. She pretends not to notice. I lie in wait behind her, like a spider, or a ninja, waiting for her to rip open the next one. She does so. *I swoop*. (Imagine that bit in CGI.)
"I'dreallyratheryoudidn'tRIPOPENthemagazinesifyoudonotintendtobuythemmadamthankyousomuch", deftly twitching the article in question from her fingers and pointedly attempting to force the promotional Kodiak wolf or similar back into the wrapper.
She says *nothing*. Shortly afterward she approaches the info point, where I am keeping watch, and pretends to look at some leaflets detailing the happy sparkly fairy fun we have planned for the guttersnipes whose parents are too inbred to devise their own programs of entertainment for their offspring. She would make a rubbish spy, as she is clearly looking for my Happy and Helpful namebadge. As I am not often either, I have discarded this offending item some weeks previously, flushing it down the toilet with maniacal glee.
I am filled with righteous joy and a deep calm as I lean toward her and conspiratorially murmur, "My name is jonnysardonic, and my manager's name is (insert banal appellation here)."
"I'm a regular customer!"
"I have never seen you before in my life."
"I thought you could browse the magazines!"
"That is criminal damage, not browsing, madam."
I think this is a disgusting way to treat customers!"
"Indeed, I would never dream of treating a customer this way. However, you are not a customer, madam; all you have done is destroy my stock and render it unsaleable."
"I'm never coming to this branch of (you *know* where) again!"
"That is correct, madam, because you are barred."
Later I discover that this Woman is known all over the region for being an insufferable nonshopper. Thankfully, I will never see her again in *my* store. This stands out as my most satisfying interaction with a Public, ever.
"I feel really harassed!"
Yes, you dozy bitch. That's because I'm harassing you.