September has arisen the beginning of a new chapter in my life. After months of slobbing my lackadaisical body onto a sofa which had shaped the dent of my ever-existing presence, I tackled the odds and fought for a job.
Well, by 'fought', I ultimately mean blagging a patronising interview process in which I expressed my ''undying'' passion in the world of retail. I'd like to say I'm a reliable source on judging the difficulty of work, but I'm not. I'm a self-confessed procrastinator whose furthest occupational experience was clock-watching in a run down radio station. Despite my inexperience, two dreary weeks in the store has educated me on the tediousness and frustrations of working in retail.
It's easy to be fooled by the cutely worded job description;
enlightening candidates on the unmissable thrills of being a sales
adviser. A crucial factor to ponder is, what is a sales adviser? Nobody can be faulted for optimistically assuming the best; would it be using fashion knowledge to style customers? Suggesting fresh ideas to improve sales and boost revenue?
No.
To put it bluntly, you stack shelves and print receipts.
In hindsight, all sounds perfectly bearable, but enduring a 10 hour shift is almost as brain-numbing as a 30 minute showing of 'TOWIE'. OK, that was a little harsh.
The nightmare begins the moment you enter the store, glancing sickeningly at the surely robotic enthusiasts who thrive off working in such an atmosphere. Uncomfortably passing managers who stroll through the floors with a tightly strapped chip on their shoulder, shielded with a horizon of arrogance glowing from their very punchable face. It's infuriating witnessing these idiots parading the store with a sense of authority, which the cowardly employees seem to aspire to. Don't get me wrong, a minority of workers are worthy of respect, but the rest are either egotistic twats or kiss-arses with no backbone.
I'm a worryingly relaxed individual when it comes to tasks, I don't tend to worry about failure. These employees however are the opposite, they're statistic-obsessed human beings who shudder around chanting numbers and orders in an uncontrolled flurry of fear. The pressure and intensity of these orders sends an awkward air throughout the store, leaving me pleading to a non-existent religious figure for each tormenting minute to accelerate.
I'd spend time informing you on the disgusting mannerisms of customers, but I'd miss next weekend's shift. Flash clothing seems to attract the snobbiest of people, evidently to camouflage their gruesome personalities in expensive designer-wear. You're approached as a peasant, of course these upper class superstars are far superior to workers on a £5 hourly rate. With a downgrading sneer they'll reluctantly converse with you. ''Where are the burgundy cardigans?'' My knowledge on the whereabouts of products is minimal, therefore I politely explain the situation and redirect them to another peasant of staff. She'll tut, mutter under her royal breath and storm away. Preventing myself from wedging numerous coat-hangers into her eyeballs is equally as difficult as keeping my fists unclenched.
There's little consolation to the attitude of people surrounding you, unless of course you enjoy being spoken to degradingly whilst placing trousers onto racks. Exhilarating. The store is often mistaken for an Ethiopian village with the inability to invest in a fan, and the irritating pop songs are no reassurance that an anti-depressant overdose is unnecessary.
Work at Sainsburys.
I hope my boss doesn't see this...
