Deficit of Decency

A job in retail, as anyone will tell you, requires a sense of humour. 

Plus a good sleeping pattern; a visualization of your pay-cheque; a sturdy jaw to take the clenching of teeth; patience, and a box of tissues for whenever you waver on any of the above.

It requires you to smile when you don’t feel like smiling, laugh amiably when it’s not worth laughing and answer some really fucking stupid questions (while raising a few smarter ones of your own, such as “if having this stuff is this important to some people, then what is life?”). You are required to then take the abuse that comes with this, even when you have managed to generally pander to people and their whims as much as it is humanly possible without surfacing for air with a slurp, a gasp, and a very brown nose.

I am a firm believer of ‘do as you would be done by’. 

As a customer, I want to feel valued to some degree and be met with politeness and the due amount of respect that comes with it, as any well-mannered stranger in an establishment might expect and accord. I know what it feels like to have an uninterested person serving you in a shop. 

That is why the self-service machine was invented in the first place: because, buddy, you actually could have a machine doing your job. aka. taking my money and not packing my bag for me. Put some personality into your job and a machine can’t take it from you. 

Clearly why we’re suffering in the 21^st century. 

It stands to reason, then, that I should be able to emanate the qualities so desired by a customer when I, myself, am behind the cash desk, or answering your inquiries. I will do as I would be done by. 

So I will be patient, and polite, and smile, and maybe even crack a gentle, if not mildly self-deprecating joke, in your favour. 

I will gently acknowledge the weaker moments of the corporate scheme, while not damaging the reputation of the company who employ me. 

I will run your errand, find your product, recommend the next best thing and where to find it and even call you a god damn taxi and carry your bags out to it. 

So what do you do when your customer continues to be an utter cock?

It's not even just customers. It's the public. The people allowed out on the streets. Yes, it's the twat on the phone who comes to the till and doesn't say a word to you; but it's also the guy who stops in the doorway to put his receipt in his wallet. It's the person who gets off the top of the escalator and doesn't know where to go; the person who exits a shop at snail's pace into a stream of pedestrian traffic. 

Some people exist to test you. 

I'm sure of it. Why else would anyone be that much of, and that deliberately, a tosser? It's to keep The Strong strong.  

Maybe I started this out all wrong. Perhaps it's not customers in shops at all. Just because we stand behind tills for long shifts at a time, it doesn't mean it's just arsehole customers inside the store and logical people outside. No, no. It's people in general these days. 

No one thinks, no one cares. What happened to being conscientious? What happened to saying 'please' and 'thank you'; what happened to smiling at people? 

In shops, on the pavements, in cars (God, aren't there idiots in cars). When did 'giving other people a hard time' become a more common occurrence than congratulating others on a job well done? We're a very selfish and self-indulgent generation (well, we're a very selfish and self-indulgent race, but I'll save some misanthropy for another post). 

It ain't half a struggle to try and be a decent person on the highstreets of 2017. 

*deep breath* "And would you like a 5p bag for that?"

Manifesto Merde

I’ve thought long and hard about what I want to talk to you about. You may not like it. Well. I don’t think many people do like it. 

Poo. 

Yes. I want to talk to you about poo. 

‘What?’ you may be thinking, ‘that’s hardly a female issue’. 

Wrong. 

It’s an everyone issue. Only not everyone talks about it. Especially not women, we all think. So I’m here to shed a little light on the matter. Manifesto merde: a woman’s perspective.

Poo happens. In all shapes and sizes. Believe it or not, it’s not just men that do poos. It’s not just men that block toilets either. Women do poos too. We poo. We takes shits. It’s just as brown as men’s poo. It smells just as bad.

Women take pride in their poo. Often quietly; discretely. But when they’ve had a really good one, they feel lighter and prouder. 

(This is not to be confused with the satisfaction of a good fart. Because a fart can be all well and good until it's been pushed slightly too far and it feels like you've strained a fallopian tube. Not the same thing.) 

There’s nothing more freeing than a really good poo. That satisfying splash, that surprise ghostly diver where it disappears entirely. Small thrills in so confined a space. Dropping a dress size in one sitting.

You know that moment when you realise your grandparents know what sex is? When you can’t convince yourself any longer that they only had sex twice, out of necessity, to spawn your Mum and your Uncle? 

Well. Now you know that your Grandparents poo too. 

Nanny takes shits. Dear old Nanny and Grandad. Sat on the same toilet that you use when you stay round. Maybe while you’re asleep in the guest room next door. Pooing. Feeling lighter and prouder for pooing.

I think we could apply this to life. Let's get philosophical, if you will.

Whenever you think it’s just you: it’s your drama, it’s the end of your world. Maybe it’s actually like having a poo. 

We’re all doing it. Just nobody talks about it. 

To BA or not to BA?

Well, I did it! Four years later, I finally finished my degree and made it through my Masters! Well. I say “finally”. That was 5 months ago, really. And I’ve spent 5 months wondering how the hell I’m supposed to apply it to anything.

“Go to University” they said; “join the Drama Society but take an academic subject. Get the best of both worlds”. Now I’d like the middle of either world, please. Coincidentally I wrote a term essay during my Masters on why having a BA won’t help you get a job. My modernist-poetry-spouting teacher didn’t like it much. I can’t imagine why.

Well, turns out, Sir, I’m exactly where I said I’d be, which you only 54% agreed with: is my BA OR my MA helping me? I’ll have you know that two gentlemen at work the other day said I “sounded intelligent”. I take it all back; it’s doing me wonders.

Do I regret doing my BA? No, of course not. And going to University was one of the best things I’ve ever done – I made completely new friends; I felt my brain expanding every day; I saw it splatter all over the wall on multiple occasions, usually during long essay-writing spells; I moved out; I had my first relationship; I had to walk away from it and somehow pull myself together again. I did a hell of a lot of growing up and learning in a short space of time. How on earth could I regret it. Yet it doesn’t change the fact that I stand by my essay: a degree – specifically a BA – will not guarantee you a job like it used to. So an MA. Yeah, it does exactly the same thing. Except you know in yourself that you are a little bit smarter.

I studied English and then went on to do Creative and Critical Writing. We covered so much, from Language to Psychology to Philosophy to Sociology to History to Religious Studies. We covered The Norman Conquest all the way through to Modernism and Post-modernism (which, despite 4 years of studies to open my eyes, I still think is absolute bullshit). But what do my qualifications tell people? I can read, and I can write. Have you tried looking for a job based on those appraisals?

It’s hard to get a monthly wage that will cover your rent as a ‘creative writer’. Writing gigs can be one-off editions or performances, or a case of ‘writing copy’ which isn’t quite the same. It feels ridiculous to apply to people and ask them to employ you because you can write. ‘Have another skill’ many advise when one ventures into the Arts. My skills and interests include Directing and Acting alongside Writing. Sigh. What a plum. Why do I have to have a completely financially redundant skillset? Culturally, socially, the Arts have so much worth. Even within a working environment, an understanding of cast and crew mentality from the Theatre is so beneficial, and an eye for patterns, colour and design is important for marketing any business. But you try telling the manager of X retail store that your cultural enlightenment is ‘worthy’. 

So, I have yet to find a real niche for my craft (and by niche I do mean a case of enjoying the creative production and yet being paid for it). I suppose I’ll do the thing that all 20-something graduates hate and continue to “gain experience”. (I wish you could tell employers that comprehending their till system would be a piece of cake compared to reading Heidegger. I am more than qualified to do this job!). 

P.S. Don’t bother searching ‘writer’ on Indeed.com. You don’t need that on a Thursday night. 

23

It’s a cliché, I know, to say ‘where did the time go?’ 

‘It’s March already’ (seriously though, it’s March already), ‘where did my teenage years go?’ – it’s very clichéd, and yet very real.

It’s 2017, which is scary in itself. I remember when I was in primary school and practising writing the date, ‘2003’, with one of those Berol Handwriting pens. 

But 2017 means I’m 23. Which is far more disturbing.

What did happen to my teenage years? How did the majority of my ‘early twenties’ slip by so quickly? I’m officially over half way to middle twenties. I’m expected to be a fully fledged adult now. Now, to some extent, I like to think I am: I live alone (in a studio flat; please, I can’t afford an actual flat); I cover my own bills; I work for my rent; I feed myself – I even cook the food – I had to learn to buy my own tampons and bathroom necessities; I make my own doctors’ appointments! But do I feel like an adult yet? No. And this is probably due to the fact that I still slip off the adult bandwagon and have moments where a packet of doritos constitutes a meal. But mainly it’s to do with the fact that I don’t feel 23. I don’t feel adult.

This probably stems from my family. I have two older brothers, both happily married, and one with a little girl. Both brothers met and began relationships with their significant others when they were 19. 19! Oh boy, am I late to the party. I should also add that I don’t mind not being in their position: my facebook is full of friends getting engaged and getting married and having their first if not second child, and I can honestly say that I feel way too young for marriage and have never felt broody in my life. However, it is scary when you have that Rachel from FRIENDS moment: she does the maths and works out when she would need to meet Mr Right in order to allow the amount of time she’d like for marriage and conceiving, etc.

But hold up.

How ridiculous is it that I feel like I’m running late? Running late for a party I actually don’t want to attend! I’m not looking for that stuff in my life right now, and I’m still feeling the pressure, which, I tell you, only started when I turned 23. As in, to the day. That ‘3’ does something to you.

The idea of the female biological clock is no stranger to me, and the assumption that women want to get married and have a family. But I suppose I’ve been naïve to think that, in a society where women continue to make such fantastic and inspiring leaps forwards in terms of agency over their careers, their bodies, and their lifestyle, the pressure was off. The ‘body image’ issue is everywhere and it’s still current: ‘plus-sized models’ at only size 12; ‘love your curves’ proudly emblazoned on petite and slender young girls. The pressure to be minute and toned and own a tank top is still as present today as it was in the 90’s when Holly Marie Combs, Alyssa Milano and Shannen Doherty were doing it. But now I’m not a teenager who spends all her time in H&M, wishing my breasts fit into those tank tops without poking out underneath as well. Now, it’s the new chapter: the ‘everyone get married’ era. And why? 

Yes, it’s true, for some people, I blame Christianity. Those 21 year old ardent Christians who got married? Hmm… Interesting… But for others, I just can’t see the trail. They genuinely seem to be 22/23 and just wanting to get married – confident enough to get married – adult enough to get married. I have nothing against young men and women in their early twenties getting married – many friends of mine have been such people and I wish them many congratulations and every happiness in their lives together. I just can’t relate.

Am I the odd one out? Are they what is ‘normal’?

The speed at which this new era has snuck up on me is terrifying, and I’m still a newcomer. I guess I’ll just see what else I discover…

Wish me luck!