I think I’ll offer a bit of insight into my life now. Only a bit, mind you. Don’t want any crazies hunting me down like this is the Blizzard forums*. I used to have a job. Hard to believe, I know, but I did. Back in the day this is, when working meant something and we had to really scrape the bottom of the barrel in order just to survive. I mean, I was lucky enough to avoid getting sent down the pit, but this was almost as bad.
For three (and a bit) weeks, I worked in Argos. I told you it was hard to believe and in fact I probably should have instructed you to take a seat before letting this revelation loose. I sincerely hope the shock hasn’t killed any of my reader.
But yes, I worked in the place with the laminated book of dreams((c) Bill Bailey and every other twat in the world that repeats him), and it was… special. Working on the tills, for example, meant I constantly had a dry, scratchy throat as you did nothing but process the cash or card transactions. It was the abattoir where you sent the customer’s wallet to the slaughter**.
But the warehouse – oh! – the warehouse. It was everything you hoped it would be and more: floor to ceiling high with all the goods of the catalogue, arranged in such a haphazard manner that to call it ‘arranged’ would be an affront to anything that’s ever actually been arranged. How you plebs ever got anything you ordered is beyond me. Though that’s mainly because I used to get lost just wandering around, as well as the time I spent 15 minutes at the top of a ladder looking at TVs. Or the time some arsehole ordered the last individual gel pen we had in stock and I had to root through about 2,000 pens just to find it.
I didn’t find it.
But my favourite was the front bit where you handed people their stuff. Ah, technical names. For one, people were always happy with you here as you were giving them what they wanted. And for two, a couple once asked me to show them a mirror they were thinking of buying. I dutifully opened the cardboard it was contained within, not realising til a second or two later that the sliding motion I had used to open one of the flaps had sliced the tips of two of my fingers quite deep. I noticed, the couple didn’t. They said they would like to take the mirror, and I started wrapping it back up – while doing so, I bled quite a bit on the mirror itself. Again, I noticed, the couple didn’t.
You think McDonald’s workers spitting in your burger is bad? I fucking bled on someone’s mirror.
Ah, Argos. You were a strange three (and a bit) weeks of my life. I think my quitting part was the best though, as I just stopped going. They didn’t even ring me to check, they must have just been used to it. Great days***.
*ERROR – contemporary reference already out of date.
**ERROR – shit metaphor.
*** ERROR – shit days.