the replacements

A replacement for Mat has not yet been found. How could you possibly replace Mat? A dummy stuffed with straw might do, except it has to be able to pay the rent. A dummy stuffed with fifty pound notes then?

Failing that, we’ve had Dave’s workmate with the foreign name. Well naturally that was doomed from the start due to my appalling racism. But before I even had a chance to run it past the boys at Combat 18, Dave decided the guy was annoying. ‘Whenever I look up, his face is there’, Dave said, indicating the space just next to him. Annoying enough at work, let alone when you’ve just woken up in the morning.

The next guy to apply came through Facebook, a ‘social networking site’ that is so very much the latest thing that it’s almost certainly already over, especially now I’m on it. I dismissed it as a waste of time until I got addicted to discovering who, on the ‘London network’, shares my obscure tastes in music, films, and books. A bunch of freaks with names like ‘Paul Guided Missile’ and ‘Martin Plumbridge’, that’s who. I wouldn’t want to meet them, but it’s nice to know that they’re there. And not here.

Except that one of them was, the other night. This potential housemate attached no less than six different photos to his declaration of interest in the room: one for each personality, I suspected. When he turned up in the flesh however, he seemed very clean-cut, very ‘normal’. I am aware that this is how most serial killers are described, but the thing with serial killers is, they only kill strangers. And we could do with some more unusual ornaments around the place: ‘trophies’, I think they like to call them.

In fact both Dave and I thought he was genuinely pleasant and straightforward, and therefore would never move in with us in a million years. So we were surprised when he enquired about how much the deposit would be. Perhaps he is insane after all.

sausages

Christians set up camp across the road from the shop, offering free barbecue. Along with music (plaintive warbling about Jesus and friends), delicious smells of sizzling meat and onions drifted across to us. I thought it was the devil who was meant to tempt you. Hungry as I was, I stood firm. The thing is, with Christians it’s all symbolic. You may think they’re just offering you a sausage - in fact, they’re making you suck Jesus’ cock.

At work there's a move to encourage us to 'drive traffic' towards Waterstones.com. The shop who puts the most custom their way is rewarded with a delivery of muffins. Hang on though, aren't they in fact telling us to drive customers away? Fine by me: I'll station myself at the entrance with a rifle. I can live on muffins.

Mat is still moving in with Amanda, although the latest news is that instead of having a baby they are going to have a pig. Called Frazzle. Apparently there was a particularly attractive one on TV the other night. The big joke used to be: why would Amanda want a child when she has one already, ie: Mat? Well you could say exactly the same about a pig, except it would be cruel. To pigs. Who, as everyone knows, are very clean animals, and never leave their damp trainers and socks out on the patio.

Of course, Mat is not messy, he's creative. As Dave says, his living space is his canvas and he is compelled to fill every bit of it. He may even be creating life. I went out on Sunday and the trainers and socks were still out on the patio, but when I returned a little later the trainers were in the kitchen. Probably trying to get away from the socks, I theorised.

Miracles. Do they exist?

So depressed was I about work that I fell back on my old desperate dream of becoming an accountant. This got as far as me picking up Teach Yourself Basic Accounting and reading the first sentence: ‘There is nothing magical about bookkeeping and accounting.’ What a downer! I mean, I wasn’t expecting to be able to turn lead into gold but still…

Harry Potter T-shirts have arrived, all in festive black, which makes the word ‘muggle’ printed on the back seem all the more damning. ‘Muggle’ sounds like a variation on ‘mug’ - are we being offered a clue as to J. K. Rowling’s real opinion of her loyal readers? Whatever, I have already volunteered never to wear it. How dare they assume that I have no magical powers? I’m not an accountant. Not yet.

Still, it hasn’t been all gloom at work. Some guy was so impressed by the way I took his money and put his copy of Celsius 7/7 in a bag that he wished me ‘goodness’ in my life. Then he added: ‘Jesus loves you.’ I knew there’d be a catch.

Talking of Jesus, Mat has developed a horrified fascination with the Peniel Academy, the evangelist establishment just down the road. It’s run by Bishop Michael ‘Don’t call me Mike’ Reid. He’s a former insurance salesman who still looks like one; in fact, to all intents and purposes, he still is one. For an evangelist, he is astonishingly uncharismatic, his manner that of a grumpy, embittered old man. Trumpet Call, the free newspaper they distribute, used to be full of fairly nasty Right-wing propaganda (I seem to recall him praising the ‘moral fibre’ of gay bashers) but now - renamed Good News - it concentrates on their stock in trade, miracles. Mat wants to take Dave down there on a Sunday morning to see if they can heal his leg - the missing one. Then he’ll believe.

Do want fries with your copy of Fast Food Nation?

So I went into work the day after the big announcement expecting the place to be harmonised. Staff floating round in a trance of contentment. It wasn’t quite like that. The new contract is more about abolishing double time for Sundays and Bank Holidays. Even Christmas Day, were we ever called upon to work it, would command no compensation save the usual day in lieu. This is described as ‘preparing for the future’, a future where every day is the same, and I’m at the beck and call of any idiot who wants to buy Harry Potter on Christmas morning.

Of course, working in retail, I’m already aware that I’m a second class citizen to whom national holidays don’t apply, but it’s one thing to know this and another to sign a contract agreeing to it. On the other hand my wages do go up: 19p an hour. Where do I sign?

In terms of progress within the company, the future looks even bleaker than before. Whereas I could just about have got my head round the concept of being a ‘floor manager’, this position has now been replaced with something called ‘lead bookseller’. That’s ‘lead’ as in ‘leading’, not ‘lead’ as in ‘leaden’ (which obviously I would have preferred). The only other career option that suggests itself - since we will now get 65 days of sick leave rather than 20 - is contracting bubonic plague.

The problem is that everything is going to become much more customer-focused. Bookselling used to be the last refuge of the misanthrope in retail (cf: Black Books) but sadly this is no longer the case, thanks to stupid capitalism. I had a look at this pamphlet they were given at the manager’s conference and it mentioned something called ‘Get Selling’ which appears to be a whole package of pre-rehearsed phrases, facial expressions and postures to use with customers, which will be brutally drilled into our brains by crack teams of trainers. It comes with ringing endorsements from ‘pilot stores’, the kind of thing you get in ads for baldness cures: ‘At first we were really dubious about these brainwashing techniques but now we think they’re just great!’

Amusingly, they have divided Waterstone’s customers into various ‘types’, patronisingly called things like ‘passionate and prolific’ and ‘older and self-reliant’. They come with mugshots, everyone grinning. All except for one, that is. This is the young man chosen to represent ‘uninvolved reluctants’ (13%), who just looks a bit uncomfortable. Perhaps I can make a career in Waterstone’s trying to reach this difficult group. I really feel I can identify with them.