Shop Boy Remembers: Boxing Day 2010

I have begun to notice that a lot of my stories begin with the line, “Let me take you back”, and as such thought it was high-time that I dedicate a column to my reminiscing; and well, if it’s good enough for Bruce Paige, it is good enough for me.

As today is the first day of sale in one of our nation’s two major department stores, I felt it was only appropriate to reflect upon the god-father of all sale days…boxing day.

Let me take you back…

Shop Boy's Journey of Culinary Expansion: Old Fashioned Chocolate Cake / Wedding Cake Trial #1

Rounding out my trilogy of food I’ve cooked from Nigella Cookbooks in the last fortnight is her delightful Old Fashioned Chocolate Cake from the book Feast. The selection of this recipe however, quite shockingly, was not my own…it was my sister and her fiancés.

You see, I am making the cake for their upcoming wedding and this is what they suggested that they would like to have. I had never made it before but trusted in the fact that the recipe was Nigella’s.

I was paranoid that being a spongy cake, it would be difficult for me to tier the cake so had suggested instead the use of Nigella’s (of course) Chocolate Guinness Cake as it was rich, dense and moist…perfect for tiering. My sister was fine with the suggestion but we agreed that I would trial both cakes and see which was better for the occasion.

Heard on the Selling Floor

A girl was walking past my section and saw a cotton jacket.

“Oh look, a leather jacket.”

She gets close enough to see that it is not.

RDOs Amigos: Licence to kill...birds

I’m going to warn you, today’s post may insight some rage amongst the animal loving or members of the RSPCA, however let me assure you…no animals were harmed in the making of this post.

But it was not because I didn’t want to…I was fearful of revenge.

I touched on my bird phobia three weeks ago when I was taken on a mother’s day picnic; well I took my mother on the picnic but due to the large bird population in the area I am not willing to claim ownership of the decision. Anyway, today I had another encounter with the animala aves aka my nemesis.

Store Soundtrack Review: Slave to the Rhythm

There is one woman that musically rules me and in my opinion is an icon of the 80s.

There is one song that she sings on the selling floor rotation that makes me giddily happy.

There is one line in the said song that fills me with such joy.

Heard on the Selling Floor

This was a conversation I had earlier in the week…technically I still heard it…

A Customer approached me, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure…why not.”

Shop Boy Explains…why you gotta get down on Friday

Like parfait before it, everybody loves Friday.

Whether it is of the TGI variety, the Ice Cube film series or one that is Good or on the 13^th, Friday is a day that I strongly believe needs to be celebrated. While I believe this, one girl had a dream to spread the joy of Friday to all that could stand to listen…

Rebecca Black (or as I like to call her Becky…it feels more personal).

If I can't be a journo I...should be a back up dancer

I like to think I’m quite the dancer. After all, rhythm is a dancer and I have a Hispanic booty (think J-Lo), and Hispanic people have rhythm, which means that I am an extremely talented dancer. Therefore I should become a back up dancer…following the logic?

The idea of pursuing a career in back up dancing, like most of my other ideas, originates from an American Dad episode where Steve makes a similar decision. It was at this point I learnt the back-up dancers code and knew that was right for me.

Be good, but don’t pull focus.

How to…get the attention of staff (according to staff)

On Tuesday I walked you through some of my least favourite ways that customers have tried to get my attention.

Today, I will talk you through what I believe to be the most successful way of getting attention, and service.

Walk up to the sales assistant and say…

Being 24: Look at Me

Like Kath Day-Knight and Geri Halliwell before me I’ve decided that if Being 24 is going to get me a job that shameless self-promotion and general attention seeking behaviours are the best way to go.

Yes, I want you to look at me.

While this might be an idiotic idea for someone with debilitatingly low self-esteem, I need to put myself out there if I want an employer to take notice of me. I need to take charge and have someone notice how insanely awesome I am (that may or may not be true).

Bargain Bin Bonanza: The Essential Barry Manilow

There is no denying the fact that I am a Fanilow; I am also a massive fan of The Essential compilation albums. Therefore discovering that the two-disc version of The Essential Barry Manilow was reduced to $9.99 was a very happy day in my life.

Now, I understand the great Barry is not everyone’s cup of tea. To that I say, what the hell are you thinking? This epic compilation has selected his best 34 tracks and doesn’t disappoint.

It opens with the beautiful sounds of Mandy…it is something I will remember all my life. This song is great. I never realised how happy it made me until I started playing the CD last night. With the bridge that builds to eternity, the emotion running through the entirety of the chorus and the general cheesiness overlaying every lyric; this song makes this CD all on it’s own…but Barry is not a one trick pony.

How to…get the attention of staff (according to customers)

There are a lot of things that I complain about when it comes to customer service, to the point where I had to start a column dedicated to it. There is one thing however, that day in, day out manages to surprise and enrage me…

The ways in which customer find it appropriate to get your attention.

This is an issue that is so close to my heart that I thought it best dealt with by way of a two part how to session. Today I will run you through the most annoying ways that a customer believes you should get a staff member’s attention.

Customer Service Complaints: Just Browsing

I thought I would begin today with a brief rant about the “just browsing” response.

It is completely nonsensical and unrelated to anything that I’ve just said.

I’ll pop it into a scenario…

Shop Boy Explains…why I can’t bounce back like I used to

…why I can’t bounce back like I used to

This could easily have been included as my RDOs post for yesterday, however I felt had an important enough message to warrant something more than a mere recap.

I can’t bounce back like I used to.

Spotted on the Selling Floor: Neil Diamond's Fashion Manager

Let me take you back…it was March of this year. Neil Diamond was touring and I was not attending; needless to say, I was very upset. Neil has always meant a lot to me and I was not going to see him, the tragedy of what was unfolding is nothing short of Shakespearean.

Anyway, the day of his concert rolled around and I was glumly folding some shirts at the counter when a man approached with a bundle of socks; he had a thick American accent and mentioned being in rush. When people mention being in a rush I like to take my time. The theory being, if you’re in that much of a rush why the hell are you shopping?

“Oh, so what are you up to today?” I leisurely asked him while treating each pair of socks like they were cashmere and needed my full attention.

RDOs Amigos: The Rapture That Never Was

I’m going to be honest…I wasn’t prepared for today’s post. My theory was, if that crazy guy is right I wouldn’t want to regret planning something instead of having one final trip to IKEA/a crackshake.

I went with a breakfast crackshake to start my potentially final day. It was rapturous.

Anyway…back to the rapture. We have been bombarded with images and news stories of people proclaiming the latest doomsday prediction for the last week or so and I have to say, they made me sad. Not because I was convinced it was happening (I’m running with 2012 for my doomsday beliefs), but because these people were.

Shop Boy's Journey of Culinary Expansion: Meatballs with Tagliatelle

I owe making the recipe to my often-mentioned friend Amy-May…and of course Nigella. This is her favourite recipe from her favourite Nigella cookbook, Nigella Bites.

As I’ve no doubt mentioned a hundred times, we went to see Nigella at the Melbourne Food and Wine Festival in March. The days leading up to her appearance aka the best day of my life, we debated the merits of each cookbook in order to decide what one we wanted to get signed. I decided on Christmas (which lead to a somewhat awkward back and forth with the domestic goddess), while my partner and Amy-May went with bites.

On perusing her copy while on the way to the venue she opened it to the page with this recipe; covered in splatter from the rich sauce, it was clear that this was a much loved recipe and I knew that I had to make this dish immediately.

What's in a break? Borders

Well, not anymore.

As we have all seen in the news the Borders book chain went in to receivership earlier this year and after months of trying to work it’s way back in to the black, it announced the closure of many stores; one of them is my local, in the Brisbane CBD.

Finding out was a very black day in my life.

Shop Boy Explains…why 9 to 5 is my preferred shift to work

...why 9 to 5 is my preferred shift to work

Attention future employers (I’m looking at you Helen McCabe), my preferred hours of work are 9 to 5. Whilst I am willing to be flexible on this, allow me to explain why this is my desire in the hopes that you see how truly important this is to me.

Most mornings I struggle to wake up, generally because I set the alarm four hours before I start work, so this results in my tumblin’ out of bed and stumblin’ to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, first and foremost. Whilst this doesn’t have anything to do with actually working, it is the foundation of my day and enables me to yawn and stretch and start to come to life. After this I have the power to get the blood pumpin’ in the shower to the sound of the other folks like me, who are already stuck in the commute on the roads outside.

Customer Service Complaints: Mr. Cellophane

As I’ve detailed throughout the last few weeks, I hate a lot of things about working in retail. None of them compare, however, to the retail rage I feel when customers ignore me. At least once a day I have my greeting ignored by a customer.

I just don’t get it.

Don’t they realise that I am paid to be standing in the section and they are not? If anyone should be doing the ignoring, it should be me…you’re on my turf!

Bargain Bin Bonanza: Innerspeaker by Tame Impala

My choice of what to buy this week whilst perusing the bargains was very simple. Last Friday night I went to see some friends’ band at The Globe in Brisbane. It is one of my favourite venues as it is home to some seedy couches and cheap beer…and it is situated in the heart of the seedy part of The Valley.

Anyway, at their gig (their band is Buick Six and they are amazing…check them out on iTunes) a few of our friends were noting how their sound had matured and developed; the general consensus being that they sounded a little bit like Tame Impala. It was at this point I realised that I had never bought their debut album Innerspeaker.

Thankfully when I was in JB the next day I noticed it had a hot little discount sticker on it. Luck was on my side; it was $9.99!!

RDOs Amigos: IKEA

When Belinda Carlisle sung about heaven being on earth, there is only one place that she could have possibly been talking about.

IKEA.

It is a land of joy, hope and wonder; and today I was lucky enough to make another visit. It is a place that I have ventured to at least four times a year since moving out of home and every visit, I can’t help but buy something new. Like coffee Thickshakes, IKEA is addictive.

Heard on the Selling Floor

This needs no introduction...I'll let your imagination take you where it may...

"Harry Potter was hard enough for me to swallow!"

WOW.

Customer Service Complaints: Damaged Goods

I hate the leniency of returns in the Australian retail industry.

Customer’s try and complain if you don’t do exactly what they want in regards to their complaints and unfortunately, nine times out of ten, it becomes a case of the squeaky wheel gets the oil.

I’ve touched on it before, but I don’t understand what customers expect.

Shop Boy's Journey of Culinary Expansion: Lone Linguine with White Truffle Oil

I’m working up the adequate words to dedicate an entire post to Nigella Lawson; I love her.

While you wait, I thought I would ease myself into the impending full blown Nigella-gush with another tale of my culinary expansion. This one being the time I made Nigella’s Lone Linguine with White Truffle Oil from Kitchen.

I bought Kitchen as soon as it was released late last year and on my first perusal almost went into an imaginary culinary coma. Every page was home to pictures and recipes of food that was yearning to be cooked. I was in food fan-boy heaven.

Spotted on the Selling Floor: Shannan from The Biggest Loser

Today I would like to give an example of how people should deal with “famous” people (I use that term dubiously).

Going over my past Spotted entries, I noticed a trend of me hyperventilating on sight and becoming lost for words. In my defence, the people that cause me to react in this manner are generally career crushes or amazing like Quentin. As a journalist however, I feel it is my duty to act more professionally around these types. I can handle musicians and the like when I have to conduct interviews, and need to transfer that ability to remain composed to the other types of people I will encounter in my life.

Store Soundtrack Review: Something To Talk About

Working in retail you hear a lot of music. While some of it is great, some of it is absolutely appalling.

My section is on the border of two different sets of music; some to appeal to the youth market, and the rest is put together to appeal to the more refined tastes, finished off with some elevator music.

Call me old fashioned, but I prefer the older stuff. To me, nothing says selling floor like a bit of Jazz Sax followed by Elton and Bowie. Don’t get me wrong, I can whip my hair back and forth with the best of them; but there is a time and place for such shenanigans.

If I can't be a journo I…should write scripts for Home and Away

I am pretty sure I’m psychic…that or I have the mind of a soap writer.

Day in day out while watching Home and Away (yes I watch Home and Away), I ramble off my theories on how the storylines will pan out. Nine times out of ten, I am right. Pretty sure that means I am qualified; I clearly have a thorough understanding of how the fictional world of Summer Bay works and the people within it act. That is half the battle.

I spent a lot of my childhood watching Days of Our Lives with my mother, well an hour a day of it, and from that time I learnt a thing or two about what works and what doesn’t in the world of soaps, and what I believe Home and Away is currently missing.

Customer Service Complaints: I’ll Give You Something to Do

The brand I work for has some pretty god-awful adjacencies. To my left is underwear, diagonally opposite is swimwear and in front of me is the abyss of unloved and unstaffed clothing mediocrity.

In any given day I can be asked what size Speedo someone would fit (I don’t know, nor care), where the male g-strings are (they dry quickly when travelling…allegedly) and whether there is another size of a five-year-old t-shirt that has been sitting in a pit of neglect. This annoys me, but not as much as the six little words some arrogant customers like to say on approach, thinking they are charming...

I’ll give you something to do.

An open letter to...Helen McCabe

To dear Ms. McCabe,

Helen, am I worthy of even calling you that? Probably not, but I’m thinking I will get personal anyway and hope for the best.

I doubt you have seen, or even heard of my blog. If you were to take a look through it, which you don’t have to, I mean don’t feel obliged or anything, but I would be really excited if you did…you would see that I am quite unhappy with being a journalism graduate that is stuck working in retail aka my own personal version of hell.

I feel unfulfilled and uninspired.

Writing is my passion, organisation and order come a close second and third, but they are another story (best shared over some AWW scones from the test kitchen). I am writing to you, in this impersonal and public setting, in the hope that baring my heart to you will at least instil you with enough pity to allow me the opportunity to intern with you.

I know the usual avenue to secure an internship with publications, call the Editorial Assistants; they deal with you and try and fit you in. My theory is, why go there when you can just ask the woman at the top (that is you) in such a public manner that she admires your chutzpah?

Now I bet you are wondering, why should I bother reading on? Well, Helen (remember I agreed to get personal), despite being a 24-year-old male with a beard and penchant for footy shorts, I also am possibly the most stereotypical Australian Women’s Weekly reader.

You see Helen from a young age I have always enjoyed cooking and baking. When I was five it was more about licking the batter from the sides of the bowl when Mum was done making something (like a train cake…for example), but a true love has evolved from these initial encounters and I now get to relish in the unbridled joy of creating culinary delights. Each month I ogle at the delights resting within your pages and think to myself, thank god for Pamela Clark.

My passion for baking leads me to my next point; I look up to and would like to be Nigella Lawson. I love her, and not just for her beautiful curves, soothing voice and flirty manner. There is such a joy about the way she cooks; her desire to infuse the food with love to nurture her family is beautiful and something I believe most Weekly readers aspire to do when cooking for their loved ones.

I am an avid user, and believe strongly in, SK-II. What does this have to do with The Weekly? Well like the many professional women that turn to The Weekly each month. I understand the importance of caring for your skin and take pride in my appearance.

Despite being male I am a strong believer in feminism and gender equality. People like Ita built ACP into a place where women’s interest magazines were able to act as a voice for change, whilst being a voice for all women. To be involved in continuing this culture would be an honour.

Like most of your readers (and the world), I was transfixed by the beauty and joy of the recent Royal Wedding. The love that underpinned the entire day was truly wonderful to witness, and when teamed with some celebratory wine, I was unable to control my emotions. It gave hope to so many that dreams can come true and that fairytales exist…maybe that is where the courage for this letter has come from?

So despite being almost the polar opposite of what is typically viewed as The Weekly’s reader, I hope I have shared enough about me so that you can see how perfect a fit I would be at The Weekly…and allow me the privilege of interning with you. Whilst trapped on the selling floor this week, I have spent my time organising potential outfits that are suitable for me to wear at The Weekly and I just can’t stand the thought of that organisation going to waste. I even arranged for outfits that look like I’m wearing pants!

I love your magazine and what it stands for…and having the opportunity to be involved with a publication that my mother has been subscribed to for longer than the duration of my life would be such a wonderfully surreal experience.

That and you are beautiful…just saying.

Warmest Regards,

Ben

Heard on the Selling Floor

I always enjoy when rude customers are put in their place.

There was a staff member at work that was dealing with an obnoxious woman on a Friday night fresh from the pub.

He kept asking her to repeat what she was saying as he has a hearing difficulty…

“Would you just listen,” she screamed across the counter at him.

His response was calm, and hilarious.

“I can’t hear you because I’m deaf. You really need to learn to hold your liquor.”

With a red face, from embarrassment or booze, she left.

Shop Boy's Journey of Culinary Expansion: Croque Monsieur

I seem to have a thing for Meryl Streep.

Some of my greatest moments of culinary envy and joy have been inspired by her movies. Her performance as Julia Child was amazing…the feast that was awarded to my eyes, was better. Rich, rustic French fare; there is nothing that makes me more excited to eat. This movie didn’t inspire this post.

The scene in The Hours where she is separating eggs is like being witness to an act of devotion. The way the white slowly slips away from the yolk creating two separate entities is simply hypnotic (like the dumpling scene in Paris, Je T’aime). This, while inspiring my profiteroles, did not inspire me to make today’s new dish.

The movie was It’s Complicated. To simplify the hilarious film’s plot it is about middle-aged people having sex. It also features my dream kitchen. It is so open and homely and filled with such fresh ingredients and treats…it simply begs to be cooked in. Throughout the film a lot of food is made, the one thing that stood out was the Croque Monsieur that Meryl Streep made for a date with Steve Martin.

The crunch as the knives pressed down upon the bread was earth shattering (probably had more to do with the sound editor, rather than the dish), and at that moment I knew I had to make my own.

Waking up this morning with a filthy hangover, I thought of only one thing (other than the crackshake) that could cure my self-inflicted ailment…the Croque. I got out of bed, popped some Nurofen and approached my Larousse Gastronomique with self-pity and hope. I flipped to the page that was home to Croque Monsieur; my sore head at ease, I plucked up the courage to get to work on the dish…and never drink again.

Upon arriving home from the markets (and crackshake), I decided to get to work on our lunchtime delight. I started by pouring a glass of wine (I had to finish the open bottle…right), before attacking the loaf of bread with a rustic vigour, aka reckless abandon with a knife. I then carefully tore up the fresh ham, in sticking with the rustic nature of the dish, and layered it thickly upon the bread.

Then came the cheese. I searched through the endless selection of Gruyeres at the market, before settling on the cheapest of the French imports. I unwrapped the cheese and was hit with a scent that I can only describe as a sweaty foot that has been rubbed down with a mouldy arse. After checking the used by date, which was six months from now, I decided that was the smell of genuine cheese and not decay and that the sandwich should continue.

I generously layered the cheese on the cheese, closed the sandwich up and oiled both sides before frying them off. The stench of arse feet started to dissipate and with it, my fears of food poisoning lessened. When it was almost browned enough (who can be bothered waiting long enough), I popped it in the oven for the baking portion of the sandwich.

With that, I began my béchamel for the grand finale of the dish. I flicked between being mesmerised by the flame of the gas; the bubble of the sauce and the hilarity of Naomi Clark on the television whilst I waited for the sandwich to complete it’s baking.

As I pulled it out of the oven I decided the foul stench was back, I asked my partner who gave me a quizzical look. Clearly it hadn’t, I was just suffering some olfactory paranoia. With my fear subsiding, I generously cover the sandwich with the béchamel and placed it under a hot grill to be completed.

The sauce bubbled and browned, and the house was filled with a beautiful rich scent; arse feet now a distant memory. I placed the sandwich on a plate, took a swig of my wine and prayed that the crunch wasn’t merely an editor’s creation.

It wasn’t. The bread cracked under our knives and cheese oozed out the sides on to the plate. The Croque Monsieur was a success!

While I wouldn’t advise this to become a daily lunch item, neither would your arteries; the sandwich is delicious and will be repeated…maybe with a different Gruyere.

I look forward to seeing what Meryl cooks next.

RDOs Amigos: Coffee Thickshakes: A Tale of Addiction

I have an addiction.

I think about them all the time, I’ve dreamt about them, I make excuses to get out of doing things to have them.

The 'them' of this story is Campos’ Coffee Thickshake.

I used to be addicted to cola, had a brief liaison with coffee and a four year epic with The OC. None of those dalliances can compare to the power this Coffee Thickshake has over me.

Served in a beautifully crafted metal cup, the strong, robust, sweet flavour washes over you as soon as the straw, which is freestanding in the drink, hits your lips. It is like God and Ronald McDonald had a beverage baby, and hot damn, it is all that is right with the world.

I was first introduced to this perfection whilst having breakfast with my cousin; she told me how she was out to brunch with a friend who ordered one. Rightfully so, she got drink envy, and returned to Campos the next day. She was a convert, and thankfully my teacher. After hearing this story we decided that going to Campos that weekend was the only solution.

When the day came I was anxious; it was like a first date. What if I don’t feel the spark? What if I don’t order an appropriate meal to accompany it? Upon it’s arrival at our table, I realised there was nothing to worry about. I had found the one.

The way the condensation beaded on the outside of the glass, the thick milky coffee slid down the side of the too full cup…it was a sight I will never forget. With hesitation, I took my first sip; I was overcome with sensory overload. I had never tasted something that tasted that beautiful…and I knew I had to have it again.

The weeks went buy and the notches on my shake cup increased to the point I was making the trip to Campos four times a week, sometimes in secret.

This was when I realised I had a problem.

Generally when people come to this realisation they find a way to overcome the problem. I’m not the rational type; instead decided I had to spread the word of the shake to anyone that would listen. Upon reflection I think I’ve started a small-scale cult…oh well.

How does this relate to today’s RDO? Well today I initiated my eighth convert. Despite the cold Queensland temperatures at 8:30 this morning (it was probably 22 degrees or something), the latest thickshake drinker received the drink glowingly and will pay this act of beverage kindness forward.

As I finish up today’s post, I would like to leave you with some advice. If you are near a Campos, go; go directly to Campos and order one. If they are closed, camp our and wait. If you are not near one, fly to your closest and get one. You have to get them into your life.

They are perfect; they are like a crackshake.

Bargain Bin Bonanza: Howl by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

This post should focus on two questions. The first one being, why don’t I own any albums from Black Rebel Motorcycle Club? The second, why did I choose Howl as my first?

I’ll begin by making this easy for you; I don’t know why I don’t own any Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (who from now on I will call BRMC out of laziness). They are amazing. Seeing them live is amazing.

The selection of Howl was hard, it seems $9.99 was the going rate at JB for all BRMC albums. I would liken my dilemma to picking a favourite child. I spent half an hour (I wish I was joking) looking between Howl and Take Them On, On Your Own. Both had sweet covers, both a decent number of songs I heard them play live. There was no competitive edge…until I started thinking about possible outside influences. For some reason Take Them On reminded me of a title Yo La Tengo would use; a little bit, I’ll kick your ass but be kind enough to tell you first. I liked this.

Howl gained the competitive edge because it shared the name of my favourite poem…Howl (by Ginsberg). I love me some beatnik phrasing, ideals, clothes…I knew that this was the album that would be the focus of my review (I use that term loosely). Upon “researching” the album when I got home I discovered that its name was directly taken from the poem…score!

This album is like a movie about an epic tale. We open with the upbeat homey feel, flip down to the title track where our hero sets off on the quest with a little bit of hope and a whole lot of trepidation before meandering through the journey of the album…it finishes on a high note.

I don’t know if it’s the southern sound, the country influences or the hints of gospel but I love this album. Last year NME dedicated an issue to great “cult” albums in which this album featured. I can see why.

I give it a well-worn rock t-shirt and 4 discount stickers.

Will I ever buy a dud?

Shop Boy Explains…the laws of turf

…the laws of “turf”

I was having an issue where someone I really didn’t want to see kept popping up at work. Yes, I work in retail…this is bound to happen. I understand that. It was when my locales in the vicinity of work, like my coffee shop, were overrun that I decided I needed to open up the discussion at work.

What’s your stance on turf?

Working in retail, a lot of time is spent talking about…anything. Throughout the fifty thousand conversations I have in a week, one or two are bound to end up as shop floor hot topics. Turf was definitely one of them.

Like the Jets and the Sharks before us, turf and what constitutes our ownership of said turf, has caused many a headache. I mean if two people used to frequent a certain place, who gets to stake their claim on the location and who has to forgo ever visiting it again?

I’ve always been of the belief that once a relationship or friendship dissolves, there are certain places that one immediately gets as their turf, a safe haven where the other person cannot go. In this belief, there are two very clear places that constitute turf, home and work. Now yes, I know this could get a wee bit tricky if you say lived or worked with this no-longer-acquaintance, but if you don’t, hooray! You have some immediate turf…end of story!

Things should only get difficult when the turf in dispute was a mutual location. Should one person be forced out of a place they like? I would love to say, yes…get them out of here, but I can’t. Survey says that if it is a mutual location, discussion is the rational course of action. You need to decided who’s it is or set up visitation rights.

But what do you do if someone is ignoring the laws of turf? If we were in the beat of Schrank and Krupke, of course it would be a rumble to finally end the fighting. However what do you do if you, a) aren’t from rival gangs, b) one of you isn’t Puerto Rican or c) aren’t really into fighting, and just want to live in peace? Do you talk to the person and explain the laws of turf or do you live through your life worrying you would have to see a person you’d really rather not.

Upon discussion at work, responses were many, but far from varied. Everybody clearly feels that each person has a right to a place that is his or hers, where the no longer acquaintance cannot venture. Now I understand, there are places that this can become tricky. Say, you work in retail; people need to buy clothes, should they really have to go without? We no, that’s kind of unfair unless you say, work in a major department store where pretty much everything is stocked in other outlets.

So with a general consensus reached (I’m saying it is a simple, stay away unless the person who’s turf you are encroaching upon gives you a verbal ok), we turned our hand over to the other issue. What if your coffee shop (or other regular haunt) is invaded? For me, this was the major cause for my stress. Losing the safety of a place I go to twice daily, every day, and have for four years was like watching the entire shop get raped and pillaged. All that was sacred was being ripped away, right before my very eyes (we’ve discussed my tendency to exaggerate…right).

I can hear you screaming at the computer screens, “it’s coffee you fool, get a grip.” But I’m sorry, this place to me is my non-alcoholic version of Cheers where everybody does know my name and I don’t even have to bother ordering. You can hate me, you can lie to me or you can say I’m a fuckwit; you cannot, however, get between me, and my coffee.

Things I learnt from...the sweet old man in a hat

I’m going to warn you…this story isn’t a complaint about retail.

I know!! What has happened to the editorial policy of rant now and think of the repercussions later?

There is an extremely valid reason for this, I had a nice customer once…and they taught me a valuable lesson.

Last year, there was an old man walking around the store. I approached him because, a) he looked really sweet, b) he was wearing a hat and c) he looked a little lost. Upon enquiring what he was after I learnt he was in the market for a leather jacket. I was a little puzzled…and I think my faced showed it.

He went on to tell me that on his eightieth birthday he wrote a bucket list and owning a leather jacket was something he needed to cross off. This had the journalist in me intrigued…

“Why do you want to have owned a leather jacket?” I asked.

“Well,” he began, “when I was a young boy, like yourself (I’m not kidding…this is all a quote), I saw pictures of James Dean in the leather jacket in that movie and I always thought how cool he looked.”

I love that movie…and now I loved the old man.

“Why haven’t you owned one then?”

“Well, I never felt it was appropriate for me to own one, or the right time. Years went by, and one day I realised I had never owned one. I felt disappointed.”

At this point, the old man was tugging at my heart. Off we set on an hour journey around the floor looking at leather jackets; during that time he told me about his life and his family. He was lovely…I think I have an elderly crush. We eventually found one and the look on his face was that of pure joy. I wanted to hug him…probably not appropriate.

As he was about to leave he asked me if I had a leather jacket. I told him I had not. At that point, he took my arm and said…

“Promise me you’ll get one while you are still young enough to enjoy it?”

I agreed. It isn’t really my style, but the man was so sweet and the whole tone of our journey together was that of living life to the fullest. Leather goods might be trivial to some, but to this man they stood for so much more; for that reason, I will buy a leather jacket.

Being 24: Plans and schemes to distract from a lack of interning

So my career isn’t starting to look up, despite me being two months into my golden year…24.

Shit.

Where to now? Anyone that has spent a day at work with me will know I’m always plotting an escape or coming up with some hair brained scheme for retail emancipation. I think I watched too much Survivor in my formative “career” years. This scheming has now boiled over from how can I beat the clock off system to catch the 7:00 PM train to how do I trick potential employers into overlooking a short list of completed internships (I have interning envy), and giving me a job.

I have come up with three solutions…

Pity. When a child cries because they can’t have, say lollies, I’m the kind of person to take pity on them and give it them the whole bag (I won’t do that for future nieces and nephews…promise). Using this, I have theorised that as the sadness of not being able to start your career is so much more profound, the pity should also be greater. How does this help me situation?

Well it is risky. Being too self-deprecating in a cover letter can come off as having no confidence, and in journalism that is pretty crucial; if done right however, I believe it will be enough to give you a competitive edge. For example…

Dear Future Employer,

…While my experience isn’t as substantial as other candidates, I believe I can still do the job…

…I worked full-time throughout my studies as a retail manager (exaggeration) and as such could not afford myself, or my business the time to regularly intern. It did however give me the skills to multi-task and achieve multiple goals concurrently.

See what I did…worked hard in all aspects but one, now a killer multi-tasker…all because I work too hard for my own good. Come on!! Anyone who ignores that has no maternal/paternal feelings…at all.

My next plan involves annoyance. If there is one thing that is respected in the journalism industry, and despised in all others it is the power of persistence. If I follow a customer around chanting you want to buy that repeatedly…they are going to walk out of the store or hit me. If I turn up on the doorstep of a newsroom each day for a year until they give me a go…I’d be admired for my chutzpah.

The issue with this technique is finding the time to do it when working fulltime? I believe Twitter is the answer. That and calling…emailing…sending balloons…anything. Turns out…need to think this through more…or take annual leave.

My final scheme is the most time consuming, but also will prove the most successful; showing the employers you can do the job. A friend of mine, who is successfully working, told me how he had applied for a magazine without any experience…and progressed to the interview round. I was shocked. He went on to explain how he made up an entire issue of that magazine and attached it to the application. Genius!

In an application last year, when I was a less golden 23, I decided to try my hand at this technique. I created a blog similar to the website of the program I was applying for. Ben for Hack was born. Whilst the produced work was somewhat mediocre, it did result in Chrissie Swan telling me I was funny, and a late night phone call from Rhys Muldoon…yes, the Play School host, offering to get me in touch with Walkley winner Steve Cannane. While it didn’t get me a job, it did get me noticed and will also be an involvement in applications until I get hired.

I also plan on having some gall and relying on charm, but I’ll expand on this next time I discuss being 24.

Customer Service Complaints: Go Long

Picture it, my counter, any day. There I am peacefully folding clothes…clothes from my brand, when a customer walks up silently and simply throws a garment on the counter (not of my brand), and stares.

I imagine the feelings bubbling through my veins is what the Hulk goes through when transitioning from Bruce Banner; unbridled range and an overwhelmed urge to smashing. Needless to say, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.

I don’t know what annoys me more; the complete disregard of the work I was doing, the belief that it is my responsibility to act as a check-out (I’m only paid by one brand, so technically it is not my problem) or the assumption that I am a servant that doesn’t even warrant a basic greeting like, fucked if I know, “Hello”.

I don’t know what these people are thinking? Lets run through the logic of it all shall we…

Oh look; it’s a sales assistant standing at a counter…I want to buy this garment. Golly gosh, what luck! Now, instead of saying “Hi, Can I just grab this?” I’ll simply throw it at the staff member and give a bovine stare and wait.

Well THAT makes sense…

Instead of letting Hulk overtake me I like to fight stupidity with stupidity.

“Hi…did you need a hand with something?”

With much annoyance the customer responds, “um, yes, this garment (holding up whatever they threw)”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t understand throwing something at the counter meant you wanted it. I’m so sorry.”

I’m not sure if it’s pity for my perceived stupidity or an insane ability on some customers’ part to hold their tongues, I have never gotten into a brawl over this…yet.

I will cut this rant short and finish with a simple plea; next time you walk into a department store and there is a staff member doing something, please do not approach them with your arm back ready to lodge your selections at them. Stop and think.

In most department stores a majority of employees are hired and paid by only one brand…lobbing a pair of undies on a mid-fold jumper will really piss off someone that has nothing to do with jocks.

Simply approach the counter and say, “Hi, can I just buy these?”

Chances are the reaction will be equally as pleasant…and won’t involve me diving over the counter whilst turning green.

Hulk out.

Heard on the Selling Floor

I don’t know how I should have taken this…but it did sound funny.

“He thinks I’m Indian…and I’m not talking Native American Indian. I’m talking Curry Indian.”

RDOs Amigos: Fear and loathing of Cracticus tibicen

I hate Magpies.

I hate them with the fire of a thousand suns…and because of them; I also have a fear of birds.

Let me set the scene, the year was 1992; Salt-n-Pepa were busy talking about sex, Boyz II Men had come to the end of a road, Silence of The Lambs had won five Oscars, Girlfriend wanted us to take something from them and I had a fateful encounter with a magpie which has tarnished my opinion of all birds ever since.

I was walking along the river to the library with my mum when I saw a sprinkler under a tree. Being five, this was an awesome sight and something I couldn’t walk by. I was off running, potentially skipping, through the water. My joy was short lived however, my mother screaming my name cut through the air. Terror was clearly evident. I turned around swiftly, mid-skip, where the bird’s beak connected with the lower lid of my right eye.

There was blood; at five you would say it was a lot of blood. Anyway, there was some running, getting to the library and mum beating off the bird. I don’t really remember what happened after the senseless, unprovoked attack…only that I now feared Magpies, and well, all other birds.

What does that have to do with my RDO?

Well, for Mother’s Day we decided to go on a picnic with mum…obviously, in a park by the Boat Harbour. Sounds pleasant, and it was…until the idiots at a nearby picnic set-up decided to feed some chips to some birds. I would liken hot chips to burley for birds; one smell and they are flying in from all directions. It went downhill after that.

Flocks of pigeons and seagulls kept surrounding our table. This made me anxious. With sunnies on and my hoodie tied around my face for protection, my eyes began darting around like I was having a fit. It was at that point that my mother said, “Are you still scared of birds? I had no idea it was that bad.”

Well mother, I’m saddened to admit that yes, it is THAT bad. For example, when walking to the train station, if a bird is on the footpath in front of me, I cross the road. I have run out in front of a car in one such instance. I have also left a park during my lunch break as two pigeons were getting to cocky and confident for my liking and not flying away on my air-kicks. I sat inside for lunch for the next week. I also had a panic attack when someone thought it was a good idea for me to walk through the bird enclosure at Dreamworld…it didn’t end well.

The picnic finished up after a fifteen minute period of me circling the table trying to scare away birds, deciding I should pay the three year old in the neighbouring picnic to chase them before vowing to train future children, nieces and nephews to scare birds away for my protection. It was awkward.

I know my fear of birds is irrational and sometimes insane, however I freely admit this. In the words of Clarice Starling in the aforementioned Silence of the Lambs (best by way of Roger from American Dad’s Roy Rogers McFreely episode…watch it now)…

“You see a lot, Doctor. But are you strong enough to point that high-powered perception at yourself? What about it? Why don't you - why don't you look at yourself and write down what you see? Or maybe you're afraid to.”

Face your fears. Well, maybe not face them; admit them but…I’m cool with that.

Oh, and happy mother’s day Mum. Thanks for saving me from the magpie that started my woes.

PS. I’m not crazy for using the Silence of the Lambs quote…watch the American Dad episode. It’s hilarious.

PPS. I think I should remind you that Achy Breaky Heart was the highest selling single of 1992 (amazing)…I had an achy breaky eye.

Culture Club: An Oak Tree (Queensland Theatre Company)

Sometimes I like to feel important and pretentious and immerse myself in some culture. This is where I will wank on about my experiences.

An Oak Tree is a conceptual artwork in the National Gallery of Australia by artist Michael Craig-Martin. It does not depict an oak tree. This is all that you should know before seeing the Queensland Theatre Company’s latest play, An Oak Tree, the first play performed from their Studio Season, where they aim to feature “theatre that breaks the rules”. This was not a lie.

An Oak Tree is about a stage hypnotist, played with equal parts charm and authority by Hayden Spencer, who is burdened by a terrible secret. During each performance a different actor, who has neither seen nor read the play, plays his victim/subject.

Walking into the theatre my assumption was that it would be one part Thank God You’re Here mixed with three parts awkward. It was awkward, but not because you would think.

This could/should go down in history as the worst review in history, however it would be criminal to give away anything more than I already have.

Like Scream took the rules of horror movies in the mid-90s, utilized them and flipped them back on themselves, to create its narrative. This play is a “meta-experience” blurring the lines between performance, theatre and most importantly, reality.

At it’s worst moments you can’t help thinking it is a wee bit contrived, however when at it is at it’s best, it is fascinating with both the narrative of the play and the experience of the performance, skilfully representing the source material of Craig-Martin’s 1973 work.

An Oak Tree is playing at the Bille Brown Studio, South Brisbane until May 14^th and is well worth a second viewing…if only to see what the next guest actor can bring to the piece.

Ironically I would rate the play as hypnotic.

What's in a break? The quest for the best Sausage Roll

In a non-homoerotic way, I love me some sausage. They are so easy, so versatile and so delicious (God, this is still sounding so sexual). Like candy looks better wrapped in a sweater, I am of the strong opinion that Sausage is best when wrapped in pastry (the sex vibe just won’t go away, will it).

In my too many years in retail, Sausage Rolls have been a constant friend on my breaks whenever I need some love and comfort. I believe this qualifies me as a connoisseur of the delicacy and gives me the right to decree the best of the CBD.

Before I get into it, I need to describe my perfect Sausage Roll. The top would be a light and flaky golden brown pastry, hiding beneath the thin soft layer of pastry it will house the textured meat, onion and herb combination of the sausage. Below the pastry would be double thickness and as such will have the barely cooked layer of soft pastry that is my white trash gastronomical dream. Can any of them match up to the ideal Snag Roll I have in my head?

I started my study by deciding on my controls. Of course, there should be sauce. I went with a single Masterfoods Tomato Sauce per roll, which is to be squeezed over the top of the sausage roll prior to the commencement of eating. A 600ml Coke would then wash it all down. Each break over a three-day period I would then change out the variety of Sausage Rolls to discover which reigned supreme.

Wednesday lunchtime arrived and I decided to visit Brumby’s. Being the closest to work, I had frequented them with many a hangover looking for the sweet relief of baked goodness. I was disappointed; they’ve given me better sausage. I’m not sure if it was over cooked, or simply left in the pie oven too long, but the pastry was way too hard and was split down the top of my Sausage Roll. It was too hard, with no textural change…a key factor in the success of the pastry and in turn the roll. The sausage itself was like a thickened paste, with no texture and it left a claggy feeling in my mouth. The aftertaste was heavily infused with onion, however there was none to actually be seen.

On Thursday evening I decided to venture to Pie Face. The first store I visited was sadly out of the dish, so I had to venture down the mall to find another Pie Face. This wasn’t a good start, however when it came time to pay my walking woes were forgotten when I realised they didn’t charge for sauce. The experience only got better. The pastry flaked away as I took my first bite and inside I was met with texture of real food. There were visible chunks of onion, grated carrot and cracked pepper throughout the sausage and it was packed with flavour and there were no strange feelings were left on my palate. Pie Face’s Sausage Roll is a breath of fresh air in the sometimes stale and overcooked Sausage Roll industry.

I was worried that following up my delight from Pie Face would leave me feeling empty and disappointed, but Michel’s pulled out all the stops to win me over. Far and away, the pastry was best in show. It had the perfect flake like the Pie Face entry, however followed it up with the soft just-cooked pastry on the bottom. The sausage was sprinkled with a delightful mixture of herbs and onion was visible again. I was disappointed to see the inclusion of ground pepper, rather than cracked but I’m thinking that being able to see any pepper at all is a good thing.

Upon collating the data I collected, I have come up with the following results…

Coming in at first place, the cheapest of the lot, Pie Face. It was the closest you could get to the joy of a home made Sausage Roll. You could see what you were eating and I was knocked out by the flavour sensation. It also came with free sauce, which gives it an edge. Coming a very close second, ranked Michel’s. Whilst being the most expensive one in the study, the perfection that was its use of pastry made it worth every cent. In a distant third place came Brumby’s. The mid-priced sample was not the best I’ve had of theirs, but even on a good day I don’t see them taking out the top spot.

Spotted on the Selling Floor: Quentin Bryce

In honour of the Royal Wedding (yes, I’m still talking about it), I thought it time to regale you with the time I met the closest person in Australia to Royalty. No not Bert Newton. I am talking about Quentin Bryce, not C-List television Royalty.

I love her. There is no other way to go about it. Maybe it’s the fact I’m some strange male-feminist hybrid, or it is admiration for all that she has achieved in her life and career whilst raising a family, which in my opinion is nothing short of extraordinary, or it is her style and class. I don’t know.

It was December last year and I was wallowing in self pity as a) I was at work, b) work was retail at Christmas time and c) my friend Liz wasn’t there to sing songs from Wicked with me. The day was passing uneventfully with absolutely no excitement; on looking back I see this was the calm before the storm.

Like the people I wrote about spotting earlier this week, Quentin Bryce’s graceful turn about the selling floor led to some tension in my chest, loss of linguistic ability and the loss on connection between my airways, lungs and brain.

I started her trip by staring in disbelief. Could it really be her? Yes, yes it was. I then moved on to skulking about the floor to tell people she was about. I finished off her trip by alarming her security detail by my crazy stalker-esque antics and my struggling to breathe.

This would embarrass most people, not me. She is a truly wonderful woman. I believe that one glance at Quentin Bryce would convince the most hardened republican that the monarchy is a good thing…if only for having the role of Governor General.

So after a twenty-minute tour of the selling floor, Her Excellency was away. Her Christmas shopping complete and my lungs back to functioning in a normal manner…I think I have anxiety issues.

Long live the Queen, but more importantly, long live Quentin.

Shop Boy Explains…why six days on I’m still obsessed with the Royal Wedding

You could argue that I’ve lost any remaining shred of journalistic integrity by not writing about it sooner, but honestly, I couldn’t gather the right words to do justice to what I was witness to.

Yes my friends, I’m talking about the Royal Wedding.

Growing up we were bombarded with images of Princess Diana and her wedding to Prince Charles. As I child, it was something I didn’t realise had actually happened, simply thinking it was another fairytale (I didn’t spend much time in reality as a child…also thought I was Spiderman for a brief period). To be able to be witness to the reality of one such wedding was exciting and filled me with the nostalgia of childhood dreams.

Being Friday, I was already pretty pumped thanks to some sing-a-longs to Rebecca Black, coupled with the wedding; I was so excited, so so excited. The selling floor was ablaze with talk of the nuptials; who would make the dress, would Fergie show up drunk and try and get in, would Gai Waterhouse call Channel Nine to say Julia Gillard looks like crap, what flavour gum would Kate…I mean, Catherine’s mum be chewing? Needless to say, we were overrun by the fever, Royal Wedding Fever (not related to Bieber Fever).

The clock struck five (you see I was working Nine to Five, what a way to make a livin’), and I was out of there! Goodbye Porpoise Spit, hello Nigella Bites. I had decided that as the wedding was a little bit fancy, at home we should indulge in some British delicacies of a more trashy variety to celebrate. Bangers and Corn Pudding were the menu I had planned on…and wine. I like wine.

After the first bottle of wine while we watched guests file in to the Abbey and decided Chelsy Davy was going to create some sort of scene due to her dishevelled appearance. I got the first glimpse of my new Lady Crush, Pippa Middleton. Sitting in the car surrounded by what looked like an aristocratic crèche, Pippa shone as a beacon of hope and joy for the commoner.

A glimpse of McQueen (fitting for a royal wedding…just saying) later, I remembered who the real beacon of hope was. Catherine looked beautiful and this was the first point I welled up. I then welled up again when the Middleton sisters had that beautiful moment when Pippa was fixing the train just prior to the entry to The Abbey.

The ceremony went by, so did another bottle of wine and with it, the attempts to contain my emotions. Yes, shamefully, tears were flowing.

“They are married…it’s so beautiful”

“Poor Camilla…why didn’t the Queen just let the get married in the first place? She seems kind of sweet to me.”

“How cute are all the little ones…even the one with the bags under her eyes?"

A short carriage ride to Buckingham Palace and the opening of a third bottle later, my focus turned to the hilarity of some of the guests. While Chelsy was likely swinging off a bell in The Abbey, the who’s that of aristocracy, that didn’t make the after parties, were jostling for attention in front of the world’s media. It was evident most of them had never met the couple.

Back at the Palace, the time came for the balcony kiss and fly past. Cue my sixth set of tears.

“It’s…just…so…nice. They…seem…so…nice.” (I was drunk…forgive the limited vocabulary).

I can ramble for days about how lovely the wedding was, but luckily for you I will quote the newly minted Duchess of Cambridge in simply saying “Oh, wow”, about the wedding. It was fantastic.

In the following days I have greedily gobbled up the Royal Editions of all the glossies and can not advise you enough that you HAVE to buy The Australian Women’s Weekly. Far and away the best, in content and cover shot; plus it may or may not have bought back some welling for my. Pure class.

Heard on the Selling Floor

I was walking past a staff member who was with a customer. I don’t know what they were talking about, but I enjoyed the innuendo…

“You want it to look like this, so you can avoid the penetration.”

Wow.

Spotted on the Selling Floor: Kerry O'Brien

Today I present to you Part Two in my series on career crushes I’ve encountered on the Selling Floor…aka the day I saw Kerry O’Brien.

Kerry O’Brien has been a hero of mine for a long time; from grudgingly watching 7:30 Report as a child I grew to love him and his journalistic integrity and he motivated me to improve my skills and be an awesome journalist (clearly not there yet). Don’t worry I’m not so serious with all of my career crushes…Ron Burgundy shaped me too, but Kerry O’Brien easily inspires me the most.

Let me take you back. It was around the time of my 24^th birthday and I was walking down stairs in an absent-minded fashion (I don’t JUST meander the selling floor…honest), when I spotted a man in a power suit with a shock of red hair. God I wish that were Kerry O’Brien, I thought to myself. Half way down the escalator, I realised it was. Fuck.

I don’t think I have ever moved as fast as I did when I got to the lower level. Faster than a speeding bullet, I was around the wall and on the up escalator…but he had gone. Like a crazed stalker I ran around the store asking if people had seen the great man. No luck. Turns out Gods of Journalism aren’t as important to everyone else as they are to me.

I made my way back to my section and answered the phone…it was my manager who had seen me make the dash around the escalators, wondering if anything was wrong. I explained the situation and how I couldn’t find him to profess my undying Man-Crush and how I would probably have to go home as I was now too depressed.

What happened next, in reality, lasted about fifteen seconds; it felt, however, like six months.

I shouted down the phone that I had to go; I had spotted him…ten metres away. I was off. I kept chanting “Be Cool” in my head, to the point where by the time I got to him, I couldn’t speak (noticing a pattern with me and career crushes). I also couldn’t breathe. I tried to find something to say. Fuck, nothing…so I smiled. He returned smile. It was at this point that I realised I wasn’t breathing, and was getting dizzy.

The fifteen seconds without oxygen to my brain was not great…may have led to some hyperventilating which in turn led to me sitting in a box out the back focusing on breathing. But Kerry O’Brien had smiled at me. Nothing else mattered.

As you can imagine, it was awkward telling my manager why I had to hang up on her. Not as embarrassing as explaining I had been sitting in a box trying to catch my breath for ten minutes.

Don’t worry, next time I spot a career crush on the selling floor…I’ll be ready. I have learnt from my mistakes…I think.

Bargain Bin Bonanza: Colour The Small One by Sia

I haven’t loved Sia for as long as I should have.

The song Breathe Me is quite possibly one of the most enchantingly emotive pieces of music I’ve ever had the joy of listening to. I love the live version of it on Lady Croissant, but shockingly have never owned the original album from which it came, Colour The Small One.

Enter JB with a $9.99 album I simply couldn’t go past last week.

Getting back to the story, my friend Amy-May first got me onto this song. It was around the time of a break-up and we were discussing the music we listen to when in that situation. The song Breathe Me was hers (um…sorry if I shouldn’t have said this Amy-May)…I then went to buy Lady Croissant to experience the song. It was amazing…but that isn’t the real point of this post.

Enter, Colour The Small One. Sia’s third album, which was released in 2004, making it seven years old (I’m so good at maths), however listening to it, like all seminal, beautifully poetic albums, it is timeless.

Listening to the album makes you feel like you are sitting on a soft, worn leather couch with a blanket and your partner, while they tell you a story. There would also be a fireplace in this situation. This album is like being told a tale by someone you share a deep understanding and love with.

Sia is intimate without being bare; haunting without making you want to cry and honest without hurting. I felt connected. Maybe I’m just reading way too into it.

I have a massive crush on her.

I give it two souls finding each other, and four and a half discount stickers out of five.

Customer Service Complaints: Size Matters

Working in retail, there are a lot of things that people expect of you.

Any day of the week I can be expected to be a mind-reader, open to bartering, willing to alter garments on the spot at no cost, have the store trade 24-hours a day, find the exact garment a customer is looking for despite it being something we do not stock, and my personal favourite, I’m expected to know what size a person is by simply looking at them.

I have a counter to this expectation; why should I know what size someone I have never met is, yet they can be clueless despite living in their body every day? Is it really that difficult to memorise a few numbers and letters? I’ve touched on this before, but I don’t think I addressed the issue adequately considering how much this shits me to tears.

I am sick of having to look down people’s shirts and pants so that I can find out their size after accidentally offending them with my estimation of their size. Why should I bare witness to their bare body because they can’t remember the number on the inside of the pants they put on this morning? I’m not trying to be a jerk by guessing a larger size; it is just estimation is simply not a skill of mine. Why punish me by showing of your body?

This I can handle. The forced witnessing of nudity isn’t something I have to go through often. The most annoying sizing complaint, hands down, is when I’m asked if I have something in “Mens” size. Let me clear this up right now…there is NO such thing as “Mens” size (at least in this day and age). I have tried to investigate the logic behind the belief that M stands for “Mens” rather than “Medium”…I have found none.

I’ll give you an example of how I covertly try to teach the customers…

“Sorry, do you have this in a mens?”

“Oh, everything on this floor is for men, you are in menswear.” You can get away with this response, as most people believe you are stupid as you work in retail.

“Oh no, I meant do…you…have this…in a “Mens”…size?”

“All sizes on this floor are for men.” Reiterating the point, I hope the customer will realise the idiocy of the question.

“NO, I’m looking for a “Mens”, my husband just tried on a Small and it was too tight. I just wanted him to try a “Mens” on.”

“Ohhh…you want a MEDIUM. Yes, I have one right here! The Medium, “M”, was just sitting here between an S for Small and the L for Large.”

At this point I would hope that I have made it clear enough for the customer to understand how it works. Our exchange is practically Sesame Street sponsored.

Let us take some time to use the customer’s logic; maybe there is sense to it. If M is for Mens, L is a “Ladies” rather than large. This would mean that ladies are bigger than men, which in general is false. The theory is flawed.

In a customer’s world a size run goes from Extra Small, Small, Mens, Large, Extra Large and Double Extra Large; if they also go with the L for Ladies theory, all aforementioned Larges would be replaced with the word Ladies. If this makes sense to you, please leave my place of work and go try ordering a Mens or Ladies Big Mac Meal at McDonalds and see if the staff there don’t think you are stupid.

In the words of my friend Liz, I’m a graduate…GET ME OUT OF HERE.

Heard on the Selling Floor

Sometimes you overhear some really horrible things. I think this falls into that category, however the use of imagery is fantastic, so I’ll let it slide.

It is just so descriptive for so few words.

Two friends walked past me. One said to the other…

“He looks like a well healed burns victim”

I don’t know who they were talking about, I just hope it was not me.