Me: You played a gig in Islington? Brilliant. Who were you supporting?

6th former: Fuckdigger, miss.

Teaching rocks.

Today was my second day as a supermarket sampler type person and I had the dubious honour of handing out samples of cheese. Yes, cheese. A product that I always thought sold itself, but apparently not. My first observation has been to note how much other’s perceptions of you change within a different context. Today I saw two people that I know – one I’ve only met once and the other I’ve met several times – and gave both of them samples of fine French cheese and neither one registered that it was me. Of course, they’re there doing their shopping, minds elsewhere and so on, but like I said, in both cases they sailed over, one with his kids, one on his own, focussing intently on the cheeses and they never even saw me.  I’m pleased about this, to be fair. Standing there with a Camembert in one hand and my pride in the other as I explain defiantly that I’m going to university next month and so have jacked in my career in software and am just doing this part-time etc would just be too awkward. But the incidents really brought home the fact that, for all intents and purposes, in this kind of job you cease to exist. Being invisible isn’t always a bad thing, and I’d certainly like to add it to my growing list of supernatural powers, but it doesn’t half make you feel uncomfortable. You see, I’ve never done a job like this before. I waitressed when I was younger, but when I left university I went straight into an office-based career. I’ve never had to feel marginalised or unimportant, and it certainly is humbling. There are people who work like that, in the service industry, every fucking day. And every fucking day they have to deal with all the smart middle-class shoppers who don’t find them significant enough to even look them in the eye. And joy of joys, if they’re older than 18, they also have to deal with the silent judgements being made about their intelligence, their background, their lives. After just an hour of the patronising airs of the average shopper, it became tempting to hand them their cheese with the words, ‘Of course you can try some. Of course, I can’t eat it as my IQ is 146.’  Christ, no wonder check-out people are sullen.

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But on to more enjoyable past-times. I admit, I have been known to take a free sample in a supermarket and maybe go back for more, if I really like it. You may do it too. You may feel entitled to - after all, it’s free, isn’t it?  Well.  Let me tell you from the point of view of that invisible girl behind the free stuff, never do it again. Try to understand, all those little tasty treats have to be prepared. The amount of the particular item that’s sold that day is noted by the sampler's employer. You have only a certain amount of sample stuff with which to sell as much of the product as possible. Are you following?  Let me sum up.  The second time samplers are complete and utter time-wasting shitheads (from the point of view of the sample girl, obviously),  and for the purposes of this entry can be broken down into several convenient categories.

The Apologist – He or she (mainly shes) will walk slowly down the aisle towards your little stand, as if mesmerised. This is a shy creature, frequently sporting long, unkempt hair and shapeless ankle-length skirts, and so will need to be drawn in with a cheery invitation to partake in your complimentary wares. They will come over and listen seriously and intently to the information you give them and then eat. They will then draw aside while you speak to the pushy bastard who has charged right in (see The Twattering Ram) and stare quietly at the food. They will then feign an exaggerated tip-toe and smile humbly as they silently reach for another. They will then move on without ever, EVER buying the fucking stuff.

The Plague of Low-Costs – This is a family of economically challenged persons, numbering anywhere from 5 - 27. You hear the mother squawking in Estuary English from three or four aisles away and try in vain to hide the whole stand behind empty boxes. But her children are too well-trained in sample warfare. They know you’re there, you know they’re there. Through non-verbal signals, much like the communication system of the bumble-bee, the mother is notified of your presence and the whole brood stampede towards you. No eye contact is ever made. Five seconds ago you had a whole lovely little tray of samples. Now all you have are some crumbs and spit dribbling down your cheek.

The Fat, Greedy Bastard – Through the odd documentary about obesity and the mental anguish it causes those afflicted, I’ve developed a patronising, yet kindly pity for the lardasses of the world, and will most often think understanding thoughts about glands and thyroids and all sorts of other unfortunate diseases when I see them lumbering along. However, one day of handing out free food has made me realise what greedy fucking twats fat people really are.

The Fat, Greedy Bastard can be sub-categorised into two types – the buyer and the non-buyer. The Lesser Non-Buying Fat, Greedy Bastard will pretend to rush past but stop just at the last minute, as if he or she isn’t really bothered. Without waiting for you to hand them their sample on a little napkin, they reach out a podgy fist and grab one. Then they'll try another, just to make sure. Then they’ll spot one that is a minutely different shape from the others and have to eat that as well, because that must be a whole new variety. The samples are usually consumed in under 3 seconds and the session will be concluded with the sample girl being sprayed with crumbs as the Lesser Non-Buying Fat, Greedy Bastard says, ‘Nice, those are’ and hurries away again.

The Greater Buying Fat, Greedy Bastard will mimic the first part of the above almost exactly. Three or four samples down, they’ll send their wife or mother to pick up three or four boxes of the item to purchase. Apparently, this then entitles them to eat the rest of your plate. Quite literally.

The ‘Ooo, aren’t I just the cheekiest?’ Flybyer – Often the biggest cunts of the lot. They’ll grab a sample as they go past at high speed, without even the courtesy of looking at you. Five minutes later, they will return and repeat the action, but this time throwing a cheery, yet aggressive, ‘Cheeky, aren’t I?’ over their shoulder as they go. Can only be brought down with explosives.

The Twattering Ram – Always men. You’ll be talking your talk to a customer and The Twattering Ram will charge in, usually reaching over you and/or the other customer to grab violently at the food. They don’t ask, they don’t say thank you. And they always come back and do it again.

The ‘I shouldn’t, really’ Binge Dieters – Generally pleasant, but still highly annoying. These twittering ladies will sample your goods and exclaim over it for seemingly days. They will then make a clever feint to the left or right of your stall, throwing you off-guard and making you think they’re leaving. They’ll then spin on their kitten heel and say, ‘Ooo, I shouldn’t, really, but they’re just so nice’ and take another before you understand what is happening. This variety of second time sampler will then take 15 more samples away with them for various family members who, she assures you, will just love them.

Now is the time to ask yourself, do you see yourselves fitting into any of these categories? If you do, rest assured, someone out there thinks you’re a twat.

It’s not too late to change.

The other night, I was in a bit of a mood. A remarkable occurrence in itself, when you consider my bright and bubby personality, but anyway...

I had my first day in the supermarket promoting a sleazy tabloid the next day and I was dreading it. My favourite fish, Arthur Pakchoi, had died of some weird disease that made his face go all white. The cat, vexed that a dead fish should be receiving more attention than him, was playing up. Beckett was ignoring my glowering and trying to pretend none of it was real.

All these things came together to produce an unnatural rage deep within and so, calling on ancient girlfriend's rights, I decided to pick a fight.  After all, making someone else miserable is always a sure way of making yourself feel better. A fair while of goading later, I got my wish and Beckett and I had a row. Feeling murderous, I swept off to our bedroom where I could sulk to my heart's content. But a funny thing happened on the way there....

In mid-sweep, I passed a lamp. The lamp was on, glowing happily, minding its own business. But lo, the lightbulb in that little lamp exploded as I went past it. Yes, exploded. It didn't blow or blink out quietly. The bulb it did shatter.

Now I'm scared of myself.

I’d forgotten how frustrating it could be looking for a job.  It staggers me how rude people can be, particularly when the dread word ‘student’ escapes your lips. I am, of course, in rather an awkward position right now in that I can’t take a permanent job because I’ll be in university in just over a month’s time and I won’t lie to get a job. I hate the thought of putting anyone through the expense and time of recruiting and training, just to saunter off in September with a cheery ta’ra.  So I’m in the market for a temporary job. Along with about a billion ffice:smarttags" />Cambridge students. Bastards.

A little while back, I donned my trusty Green Flashes (have you ever been in love with a pair of trainers? It’s a most uncomfortable, yet joyous experience)  and took to the streets of this fair city. Not a single ‘Help Wanted’ sign. So I headed into a load of shops and handed in CVs. Do you have any idea what happens to the face of the manager of your average high street bookstore when an ex-departmental manager of a large games company cheerily petitions them for honest toil?  This happens:

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Remarkably enough, not a one of them has offered me work.  So I tried agencies. “Sorry, the students have really flooded the market.”, they say, shaking their perfectly lacquered hair-helmets.  One helpful lady was so eager to demonstrate exactly how remote my chances of getting work were that she led me to a whiteboard on which was written about 4000 names of youngsters waiting for work.

I have a month until I can’t say it anymore, so I intend to make the most of it. Bastard students.

So I tried further afield. After all, I have a car, I can go where no student has gone before - perhaps as far as Huntingdon. Onto the JobCentre Plus website I go. It’s actually very good, the problem is the people who are advertising. Mostly more agencies, and excitingly, agencies who believe that ignoring emails from potential workers is by far the best policy for their company. Whatever happened to common courtesy? A polite refusal? Even a scornful laugh (particularly effective when delivered by letter, I find) would be something. The others I contacted became almost aggressive when I explained that I only needed temp work for the summer as I was to go back to university come September. Jealous, I suppose. 

Finally, in sheer desperation, I handed in an application to my local Asda. I’m not proud and, frankly, I love slapping my own ass. ‘How long until you contact me about an interview?’, I asked hopefully. ‘Oh, at least two weeks. And then you’ll come in for a group interview in which you have to perform a group task and then another interview on your own and then you’ll get a decision. Anyway, we’ve recruited loads of students for the summer. You may have more luck in September.’

BASTARDS.

It seemed all hope was lost, but now it appears that Lady Luck has sniffed me out again. My landlady, of all people, has put me in touch with an agency that will have a couple of days of work a week (maybe more eventually should I prove my true worth) that will allow me to become, if only for a tantalisingly short time, a supermarket demonstrator. Glory, glory be.

So next time you see one of those girls down your local food shop, you know, the ones with the nifty hats who are trying to get you to sample the new no-fat chocolate vomit bars, think of me and smile...

8:15 Alarm goes off for partner. Partner gets up and heads to shower. I pull on my dressing gown and drag myself downstairs. Overcome with the effort, I lie down on the couch and turn on This Morning.

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9:00 Partner leaves. I manage, heroically, to make it to the door to see him off.

9:03 The toilet calls. I amble through the kitchen, sneering challengingly at the washing up as I pass. Wisely, it remains silent.

9:11 Having stood in the kitchen staring at the ceiling for 5 minutes or so, I decide to have a shower.

9:13 Standing in said shower, I fight the urge to sit down therein just to, you know, get off my feet. It’s been a long day.

9:25 Showered and back in my dressing gown, I sit down on the couch and attempt to engage my cat in conversation. Offended by his lack of response, I draw a face on an old football with my own blood and call him 'Frank'.  Frank and I chat for a while, but he makes an unwelcome move  (men!)and I withdraw to the bedroom.

9:54 After sitting on my bed, staring at the ceiling (for 6 minutes this time), I decide to put on some old cassettes.

11:30 This magic time finds me, still in dressing gown, bellowing joyously along to Tiffany’s classic 1987 debut album, ‘Tiffany’, defiantly ignoring the fact that I have neither eaten nor drunk this morning and am possibly in danger of dying of dehydration.

Sweet.

Who knows what the rest of the day may bring?

Ah, sunshine and summer. I was hoping that Cambridge would get a bit quieter with the students heading home, so that I could enjoy it a little bit more, but alas, no. It’s now filled with foreign language students and pathetic middle-aged men who have come out to leer. And don’t even get me started on the tourists…

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Anyway, so sorry for the protracted silence. Once again, I imagine there’s been much wailing, gnashing of teeth and general castings out into the outer darkness etc.  I note that I’ve been whipped off someones Favourites list an’ all, the ultimate punishment for staying away too long. It has been noted.  I’ve mostly been away, but beckett and I have also been suffering from broken broadband, and haven’t had internet access for AGES…

So.  My most recent events in a nutshell…

Fact ONE

I’ve just finished three weeks of observation work at the comprehensive school I went to in ffice:smarttags" />North Wales as a youngster. This was apparently to prepare me for my PGCE course in September.  It was fucking ACE. Highlights include the following:

Listening to groups of 13/14 year olds designing theme parks. One pair of lads came up with the concept of ‘Loveland’, which featured a log flume with penis shaped logs and white water.

Trying to convince a group of 16 year olds that Romeo was NOT a paedophile.

Going into the staffroom at my old school at breaktime for a cup of tea and a piece of toast.

Discovering that 11 year olds know what ‘MILF’ means.

Finding that if you see kids as individuals and not as a faceless mass, they’re not nearly so scary.

Fact TWO

I am currently unemployed, a marvellous thing, and getting into Diagnosis: Murder in a big way. Just look at them:

It’s not, of course, as good as Murder, She Wrote:

Fact THREE

Beckett and I have found new, beautiful flat on the other side of Cambridge that features a balcony that overlooks King’s Chapel. We (hopefully) move in next month. No more chavs haunting my burberry dreams.

Fact FOUR

Yesterday I was finally able to buy fish for our tropical aquarium following approximately 7 weeks of trying to stabilise the water. One has died already. On a brighter note, the others look chirpy and beautiful. Not literally chirpy, of course. That would make them birds and birds should NEVER be kept in a fishtank.

Fact FIVE

When I was very young, I wanted to be called Desiree.  I also wanted to have long black hair and violet eyes that changed to a stormy grey when I was angry (natch).

I tried the long, black hair thing eventually and merely looked like an anaemic 60's horror goth and my eyes remain stubbornly blue, but I find now that life can be sweet, nevertheless.  

How have all of YOU been? 

The other night I attended a gig. It was an ok gig – the band were ffice:smarttags" />Alabama 3, them what did The Soprano’s theme tune. You really can’t argue with a group who came up with the lyric, ‘I’ve got three eyes, I’m gonna knock one out for Jesus’, but I wasn’t that impressed all in.  fficeffice" />

However, that’s not the point.

The vast majority of their audience were post-40. Nothing wrong with that in itself, I’ve been to countless gigs since I was a wee nipper and I don’t intend to let my age stop me worshipping at the altar of live music when I get on a bit.  The point is this. It was like every wedding you’ve ever known. You know, when the older folk get up and start gyrating like spastics to ‘Brown Eyed Girl’, as if something had snapped in their brains and they’d lost all sense of propriety? At the end of the gig a 50-odd year old man hassled a security guy for a setlist. That’s the kind of thing I did when I was 16. SIXTEEN.  Now, I’m no spring chicken myself, but right now I am in possession of all my faculties and am setting down this guide for myself to look back on when the rot sets in…

Things You’re Too Old To Do When You’re 50…Or Maybe Even 35.

1. Dance at gigs.

You love the band. You don’t get out much and tonight you’re determined to let your hair down. The music starts and that rush of adrenaline that only live music can bring flows through your body. You’re a teenager again. You throw your arms into the air, moving your hips and flicking your head from side to side in aural ecstasy. You’re moving like Kate Moss, oozing grace and raw sensuality. 

NO.

No, you’re not, you tit. You’re jerking around like a cruel god’s marionette, forcing people to move out of the way of your flailing elbows and smothering one and all with your giddy over-enthusiasm. Your crow’s feet have entirely consumed your face, rendering you unable to see the slightly embarrassed glances being exchanged by everyone around you. And was that tight little t-shirt a good idea? NO, IT WASN’T.

You glimpse your husband out of the corner of your eye. Look at him there, smiling and singing – things haven’t been this good for a long time. He’s just as he was when you met him, when he had hope, when he had dreams. You giggle. You’d forgotten the way he could move…

NO.

No, he’s shuffling around like a dad. He’s knocking the girl behind him who wishes he’d just fucking die and snapping his fingers like a mental deficient. You both look like twats. By all means go to all the gigs you desire, but have some fucking self-respect, for sweet baby Jesus’ sake.

2. Wear pink or anything vaguely cutesy.

You look like a knob. End of.

3. Purchase Winnie the Pooh merchandise. For yourself.

This extends to fridge magnets, stuffed toys, towels, blankets, mugs, glasses, dildos, watches and umbrellas, but is mainly intended to encompass the clothing range.

Do you realise that you left "cute" behind 10 years ago?  Are you aware that sporting a cartoon bear on your tit alerts all in the vicinity to the fact that you are needy and strange? That you find yourself incapable of embracing your middle age with dignity? Have you considered lately that Winnie the Pooh, though a loveable creation from wonderful books, is a character for tiny children? Do you think that when AA Milne strolled through Ashdown Forest with Christopher Robin in tow that he had a fat horrendous mong in a Piglet t-shirt lurking at the back of his mind as he spun his web of tales?

Think about it. You know it makes sense.

4. Go braless.

This applies to both women and men and can be summed up in two words.

Charlie Dimmock.

There are more. Many more. But in the meantime, any further suggestions are welcome. This could become an ongoing feature…