Everything is true. Nothing is permitted.
After a week off I was thrust back into the hurly burly of work. The promotions were changing, which meant a lot of time on the shop floor stickering, destickering, restickering. Listening to the gnomic utterances of people passing by outside. ‘That’s a good one. You penis.’ I’ll never know what that was about.
Then trouble out the back with the Polish Parceline guy, who’d blocked some (illegally parked) guy’s exit. Much honking of horns and shouting. ‘I gotta take a woman to hospital!’
‘Oh yeah? Given her the clap have you?’
Sadly, one never thinks of these things at the time.
The loyalty card was launched but I managed to avoid wearing the T-shirt that says: ‘Ask me about the Waterstone's card’. I’m waiting for one that says: ‘Ask someone who cares’. The idea seemed to be that you pitched it to anyone who approached the counter, but everyone I asked said no, and after a while I gave up, unable to cope with the rejection. It really does make the rest of the transaction go awkwardly. Of course it may have been my pitch that was at fault (‘Want a big company to spy on you and send you junk e-mails? Sign here!’)
On Sunday I accompanied Dave and his friend Helen on one of their expeditions into Essex. We went to Frinton and walked along the front past endless rows of beach huts, desperately searching for a café. But Frinton is strictly bring your own. Everything is forbidden: dogs, arcades, some mysterious activity represented by the silhouette of a man pleasuring himself arsewise on a large misshapen rock. We aimed for the pier, which never seemed to get any closer, until we turned a corner and suddenly there it was. By this time, however, we’d left Frinton and were in Walton-on-the-Naze. Tackiness was permitted again. The pier was dominated by a long, low industrial-looking building in which - you might imagine - cattle would be slaughtered. In fact it was a dim, echoing warehouse of fun. Limp claws hovered over the mass graves of teddy bears. Everything looked like an installation by Jake and Dinos Chapman.
We walked back along the beach, Helen picking up a brightly-colored shell. ‘Where’s me whelk?’, she said later, having temporarily mislaid it. If we lived in gentler times, she could have based a music hall career on that.
Then trouble out the back with the Polish Parceline guy, who’d blocked some (illegally parked) guy’s exit. Much honking of horns and shouting. ‘I gotta take a woman to hospital!’
‘Oh yeah? Given her the clap have you?’
Sadly, one never thinks of these things at the time.
The loyalty card was launched but I managed to avoid wearing the T-shirt that says: ‘Ask me about the Waterstone's card’. I’m waiting for one that says: ‘Ask someone who cares’. The idea seemed to be that you pitched it to anyone who approached the counter, but everyone I asked said no, and after a while I gave up, unable to cope with the rejection. It really does make the rest of the transaction go awkwardly. Of course it may have been my pitch that was at fault (‘Want a big company to spy on you and send you junk e-mails? Sign here!’)
On Sunday I accompanied Dave and his friend Helen on one of their expeditions into Essex. We went to Frinton and walked along the front past endless rows of beach huts, desperately searching for a café. But Frinton is strictly bring your own. Everything is forbidden: dogs, arcades, some mysterious activity represented by the silhouette of a man pleasuring himself arsewise on a large misshapen rock. We aimed for the pier, which never seemed to get any closer, until we turned a corner and suddenly there it was. By this time, however, we’d left Frinton and were in Walton-on-the-Naze. Tackiness was permitted again. The pier was dominated by a long, low industrial-looking building in which - you might imagine - cattle would be slaughtered. In fact it was a dim, echoing warehouse of fun. Limp claws hovered over the mass graves of teddy bears. Everything looked like an installation by Jake and Dinos Chapman.
We walked back along the beach, Helen picking up a brightly-colored shell. ‘Where’s me whelk?’, she said later, having temporarily mislaid it. If we lived in gentler times, she could have based a music hall career on that.
posted by martin at 1:40 PM
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