community service
I had to work in Romford, getting the train in. A young woman opposite me got done for having the wrong ticket. She’d stayed at her boyfriend’s overnight, she explained, and got confused about her zones. ‘You dirty thieving whore!’, I hoped the guard would say (in a Belfast accent, ideally) but instead his manner was almost ridiculously gentle. Disappointing. I needed a bit of drama to wake me up.
Although on second thoughts, perhaps waking up wasn’t such a good idea. This was Romford, after all. At Waterstone’s Romford it was business as usual: the manager had just handed in her notice (their seventh manager in two years, I believe). This was Carole, who used to manage Ottakar’s Brentwood. She wants to spend more time with her young son - or, to be more accurate, some time with her young son. Shelf-stacking in Aldi, Wickford, is starting to look like an obvious next career move.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to have much to do with the customers. From what I could glean, they didn’t want to buy books, they just wanted to talk. One man, brandishing a book about Manchester United as an icebreaker, tried to have a conversation with me about football. Naturally this didn't last long - though longer than I would have liked. An old woman went up to the counter on the pretext of looking for a book about her affliction - some kind of rash - but really, she just wanted to talk about the rash (the red lumps, the white bits on top of them) and then about the ailments troubling the rest of her family. It was a quintessentially English scene, like something out of an Ealing comedy. Only not in the least funny.
The staff were fine, though. The obligatory Finnish Goth. A Muslim woman who came into the returns room while I was boxing something up and asked: ‘Do you mind if I pray?’ I’ve never been asked that before but naturally, I was fine with it. ‘Just don’t make any noise.’ A couple of drinks after work on my last day and I was careful to be out of Romford before the stabbings started (usually about eight).
Although on second thoughts, perhaps waking up wasn’t such a good idea. This was Romford, after all. At Waterstone’s Romford it was business as usual: the manager had just handed in her notice (their seventh manager in two years, I believe). This was Carole, who used to manage Ottakar’s Brentwood. She wants to spend more time with her young son - or, to be more accurate, some time with her young son. Shelf-stacking in Aldi, Wickford, is starting to look like an obvious next career move.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to have much to do with the customers. From what I could glean, they didn’t want to buy books, they just wanted to talk. One man, brandishing a book about Manchester United as an icebreaker, tried to have a conversation with me about football. Naturally this didn't last long - though longer than I would have liked. An old woman went up to the counter on the pretext of looking for a book about her affliction - some kind of rash - but really, she just wanted to talk about the rash (the red lumps, the white bits on top of them) and then about the ailments troubling the rest of her family. It was a quintessentially English scene, like something out of an Ealing comedy. Only not in the least funny.
The staff were fine, though. The obligatory Finnish Goth. A Muslim woman who came into the returns room while I was boxing something up and asked: ‘Do you mind if I pray?’ I’ve never been asked that before but naturally, I was fine with it. ‘Just don’t make any noise.’ A couple of drinks after work on my last day and I was careful to be out of Romford before the stabbings started (usually about eight).
posted by martin at 1:24 PM
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