Kayleigh and the Fairly Bad Week, Part II - The Week Gets Worse
Clearly, yesterday, Friday took a day off, since even though it was Friday the Thirteenth, I got no more bad luck than usual. Clearly he remembered this morning and passed the chore on to Saturday, because when I went to work today an avalance of shit hit the fan. I'd only been out of bed for three hours, and already just about everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong at work today. I did everything but raze the shop to the ground. Well, the legal paperwork equivalent. After all the hash-up that was my morning start-up, it would probably have been safer, legally, to just have set Sainsbury's on fire, deny it ever existed and pretend the whole Kay's-illegal-paperwork-time-keeping fiasco never happened.
When I was on the shop floor, some horrible surly old couple, the kind where both partners have identical scowls and beards, started harrassing me about milk, even though it was clear that I knew nothing about the stuff (they came halfway across the store to find me and drag me back there, because I "didn't look busy": I was dashing around with a clipboard about half my size, frantically copying down missing advertising promotion codes). Before I could say "Go away, ugly, ancient children", they had dragged me back to the milk stands, to say:
Old Trolls: "Hello, we would like some milk."
Kay the Bold: "Oh. Good. Well, as you can see, there's lots of that here. Glad to be of assistance." *Goes to leave*
Old Trolls: "We want semi-skimmed milk."
Kay the Bold: "Yup, it's right here." *Points*
Old Trolls: "Organic semi-skimmed milk."
Kay the Bold: *Points to the shelf above, under a massive poster that says "OMFG! Organic!" in the biggest letters imaginable*.
Old Trolls: "A bigger bottle than that."
Kay the Bold: *Moves finger a fraction to the right to illuminate three-pint bottles*.
Old Trolls: "No, smaller than that. Halfway between the one-pint and three-pint bottles."
I went to check the warehouse for them, to no avail, and I honest to gods thought I was going to be strung up when I came back to tell them there wasn't any. The bloke went so red I thought he was about to spontaneously combust, half screaming at me that it was ridiculous of me to expect them to pay more for a larger bottle of milk that they wouldn't use. I said that I didn't expect them to do anything, and if they wanted they could buy two one-pint bottles, which were within ten pence of a two-pint bottle and would keep for longer anyway. They didn't want to carry two whole bottles, which would have weighed exactly the same anyway, and then demanded to see a manager. "Oh no. You've thwarted my evil plot to single-handedly deprive the good people of Hornchurch of two-pint bottles of organic semi-skimmed milk. If they ever find the trucks of milk I blew off the roads it'll be the salt mines for me."
By the time I got back (I'd taken my time to find the surliest candidate I could), they had found the milk... and were STILL bitching, because there wasn't enough dressed in.
"Well, how much did you want?"
"Oh, WE'RE fine. But what about everyone else? Where will they get their milk?"
Jesus... Yes, you considerate things. Just think of the way you will have saved about four pence for the defenceless milk-seeking patrons of Sainsbury's evil empire by harrassing staff all day. Jesus must want you for a sunbeam.
When I wasn't hurtling to and from the office like a paper-bearing, slightly ungainly cheetah, I was busy stuffing a massive cardboard tree full of recipe cards. Sainsbury's has some big "Be Good To Yourself" farce on at the moment to follow on from their "Be Exceedingly Bad To Yourself" Christmas range, in a swarthy attempt to trick the non-suspecting public into thinking that we actually sell healthy food, over the competition. It really isn't true. For example, their recipe for beef was hideous. It boasted "Beef is a good source of iron!". By their reckoning, it's iron content was enough to balance out the ridiculous amount of cholesterol in the actual sauce you put on it and in the side suggestions. I don't know who they're trying to impress with those shitty little recipes. The drawings look like a child drew them (whilst blindfolded on a pogo-stick, suffering a severe fit); in fact, I've seen chavs piss better patterns up the sides of buildings. It made me quite angry: I was putting out these leaflets with these little badly-drawn people on them dancing around saying inane things like "Pineapples are a good source of vitamin C!" So are oranges, which are cheaper, and you don't cover your kitchen in slime trying to prepare them either. Plus, the "healthy" idea put forward on this card was basically that you should get some healthy pineapple, cover it entirely with sugar and grill it, and frankly that never did anyone ever good. Trust me. With a Northern family, you see an awful lot of grilled sugar meals in your time, and the results ain't pretty.
I wouldn't care, but people keep asking me things like "Oh, do you know how many calories this meal has?", or "Tell me, what's the saturated fat content of this dish?", and so on, and so forth. How the hell should I know? Why don't you look at the pack details of the ingredients? Or, if you fancy living dangerously, just make the thing blind and then see how much weight you put on as a direct result.
Still, I can't talk about healthy eating. In a moment of utter stupidity, I ate seven - count 'em, one two three four five six SEVEN - toffee bakewell tarts in my lunchbreak. By the sixth I was practically rolling around on the canteen floor holding my stomach having a toffee fit. I spent the rest of the day feeling my arteries slowly clogging with sweet, chewy goodness.
Urg. I think I need to lie down.
So much toffee.
When I was on the shop floor, some horrible surly old couple, the kind where both partners have identical scowls and beards, started harrassing me about milk, even though it was clear that I knew nothing about the stuff (they came halfway across the store to find me and drag me back there, because I "didn't look busy": I was dashing around with a clipboard about half my size, frantically copying down missing advertising promotion codes). Before I could say "Go away, ugly, ancient children", they had dragged me back to the milk stands, to say:
Old Trolls: "Hello, we would like some milk."
Kay the Bold: "Oh. Good. Well, as you can see, there's lots of that here. Glad to be of assistance." *Goes to leave*
Old Trolls: "We want semi-skimmed milk."
Kay the Bold: "Yup, it's right here." *Points*
Old Trolls: "Organic semi-skimmed milk."
Kay the Bold: *Points to the shelf above, under a massive poster that says "OMFG! Organic!" in the biggest letters imaginable*.
Old Trolls: "A bigger bottle than that."
Kay the Bold: *Moves finger a fraction to the right to illuminate three-pint bottles*.
Old Trolls: "No, smaller than that. Halfway between the one-pint and three-pint bottles."
I went to check the warehouse for them, to no avail, and I honest to gods thought I was going to be strung up when I came back to tell them there wasn't any. The bloke went so red I thought he was about to spontaneously combust, half screaming at me that it was ridiculous of me to expect them to pay more for a larger bottle of milk that they wouldn't use. I said that I didn't expect them to do anything, and if they wanted they could buy two one-pint bottles, which were within ten pence of a two-pint bottle and would keep for longer anyway. They didn't want to carry two whole bottles, which would have weighed exactly the same anyway, and then demanded to see a manager. "Oh no. You've thwarted my evil plot to single-handedly deprive the good people of Hornchurch of two-pint bottles of organic semi-skimmed milk. If they ever find the trucks of milk I blew off the roads it'll be the salt mines for me."
By the time I got back (I'd taken my time to find the surliest candidate I could), they had found the milk... and were STILL bitching, because there wasn't enough dressed in.
"Well, how much did you want?"
"Oh, WE'RE fine. But what about everyone else? Where will they get their milk?"
Jesus... Yes, you considerate things. Just think of the way you will have saved about four pence for the defenceless milk-seeking patrons of Sainsbury's evil empire by harrassing staff all day. Jesus must want you for a sunbeam.
When I wasn't hurtling to and from the office like a paper-bearing, slightly ungainly cheetah, I was busy stuffing a massive cardboard tree full of recipe cards. Sainsbury's has some big "Be Good To Yourself" farce on at the moment to follow on from their "Be Exceedingly Bad To Yourself" Christmas range, in a swarthy attempt to trick the non-suspecting public into thinking that we actually sell healthy food, over the competition. It really isn't true. For example, their recipe for beef was hideous. It boasted "Beef is a good source of iron!". By their reckoning, it's iron content was enough to balance out the ridiculous amount of cholesterol in the actual sauce you put on it and in the side suggestions. I don't know who they're trying to impress with those shitty little recipes. The drawings look like a child drew them (whilst blindfolded on a pogo-stick, suffering a severe fit); in fact, I've seen chavs piss better patterns up the sides of buildings. It made me quite angry: I was putting out these leaflets with these little badly-drawn people on them dancing around saying inane things like "Pineapples are a good source of vitamin C!" So are oranges, which are cheaper, and you don't cover your kitchen in slime trying to prepare them either. Plus, the "healthy" idea put forward on this card was basically that you should get some healthy pineapple, cover it entirely with sugar and grill it, and frankly that never did anyone ever good. Trust me. With a Northern family, you see an awful lot of grilled sugar meals in your time, and the results ain't pretty.
I wouldn't care, but people keep asking me things like "Oh, do you know how many calories this meal has?", or "Tell me, what's the saturated fat content of this dish?", and so on, and so forth. How the hell should I know? Why don't you look at the pack details of the ingredients? Or, if you fancy living dangerously, just make the thing blind and then see how much weight you put on as a direct result.
Still, I can't talk about healthy eating. In a moment of utter stupidity, I ate seven - count 'em, one two three four five six SEVEN - toffee bakewell tarts in my lunchbreak. By the sixth I was practically rolling around on the canteen floor holding my stomach having a toffee fit. I spent the rest of the day feeling my arteries slowly clogging with sweet, chewy goodness.
Urg. I think I need to lie down.
So much toffee.