As well as the crazies out on the street there is always weird people around you eight hours a day at your work.
The "post boy" in my office is over fifty years old and I can’t figure out if he’d always been a post-room boy or if he’s ever held a position of authority and is just happy now with an easy gig. He wears plain white shirts and a very old tie. His shirt pocket is always pulled down by his heavy security tag which no-one else has and I don’t think he actually needs, and also a row of pens. He walks around with an air of superiority as if he knows that without him we would be unable to function. No, we'd just find someone else.
He supplies the basics of our office like paper for the copier and printers and stationary and gets the post collected and sent out. He has one of these multi functional trolleys which can be used upright to lift single heavy items or down on four wheels to transport the many stationary orders he gets.
I think he is a little "over proud" of his job and his little trolley as he frequently travels through the building with the stationary stacked as high as he can possibly get it. Boxes of paper at the bottom and paper clips at the top. Like thin pyramids. I am praying for the day the whole lot topples over in the middle of the office, with reams of paper bursting open and many boxes of small items breaking open and spilling their loads all over the place. That would be bliss.
If someone has not used the correct and acceptable "code" on the stationary order, he'll come and tell you all about it. "White window envelope, small" is not good enough. He'll read through the order standing beside you and not only advise you of the correct terminology for the numerous envelopes available, but also correct your spelling as well.
When the printer runs out of toner, he'll turn up some hours later, if not the next day and shake the toner, telling us it's not done yet and we can still get some use out of it. Then when it really starts churning out unuseable letters, he'll only then order another, saying it might be in tomorrow. He doesn't think to have some ready at all, in this large office with various printers on each floor.
When he goes around collecting stationary orders he goes to each photocopier and kicks the boxes to see how full they are, sometimes with a little laugh as if to say "they want more paper, that's typical." Or if someone tries to hand him an envelope to be posted while he is actually collecting the post, he doesn't just take it from them, oh no, he'll tilt his head back as if looking down his nose at it and take a few seconds to decide whether he is going to take it from them, like he's deciding if your letter is worthy of being posted or not.
I have seen him pick up letters which are obviously personal or a birthday card which the person has not stamped themselves and hold it up, inspect it and say "tch tch" before dropping it in his basket. Oh yeah, that should definitely be reported, someone bastard ripping the company off for 30p.
In the past he has moaned about people using the wrong envelope for the size of letter being sent, and once he actually visited each team during their weekly meeting to perform a talk on the various envelope options and which ones we should be using and actually gave us a frigging demonstration of each envelope. He'll only permit use of the large gusset envelopes if all avenues have been exhausted, which includes him showing you your file being stuffed into an envelope which is obviously too small, until it rips and he concedes that he needs to use the slightly more expensive one.
It wouldn’t surprise me if he was getting paid more than me. I just wish he’d just do his job and do what we tell him to do. However, he is a source of entertainment for me, and now you.
Tuesday, 7 August 2007
Monday, 6 August 2007
Two Birds With One Door
While trying to leave a shop in Sauchiehall Street I was walking out through the door and a young lady appeared at the door to enter.
Rather than continuing to walk in front of her to get past her which I feel is rude, I backed up to hold the door open for her and allow her to pass me.
In doing so, I backed into an old woman who was standing looking at a shelf display, nearly knocking her over, and in my panic of nearly breaking an old woman’s hip my hand slipped from the door and the door closed back onto the lady battering into her. Once I saw no-one was seriously injured I got out of there as quickly as possible without looking back.
They say that chivalry is dead, well maybe it should be.
Rather than continuing to walk in front of her to get past her which I feel is rude, I backed up to hold the door open for her and allow her to pass me.
In doing so, I backed into an old woman who was standing looking at a shelf display, nearly knocking her over, and in my panic of nearly breaking an old woman’s hip my hand slipped from the door and the door closed back onto the lady battering into her. Once I saw no-one was seriously injured I got out of there as quickly as possible without looking back.
They say that chivalry is dead, well maybe it should be.
Sunday, 5 August 2007
Jaffa Cocks
Two friends of mine woke up in their hotel room while away on a stag night or a golfing holiday. Either one, doesn't matter. Separate beds obviously. Mouths and throats dry as hell after a night on the piss, and starving.
First guy wakes up and goes to the bog for a pee. Goes back and settles on his bed and looks around the room trying to establish if there is anything edible. He spies a packet of Jaffa Cakes on the table and goes to get it. He's only wearing his boxers. The movement around the room and the rustling of the packaging wakes up his friend, but he is too hungover to even consider lifting his head up. He just wakes up.
He hears his friend eating and asks what he's eating. He's told Jaffa Cakes. He asks for one, and reaches his arm out way behind him, palm up, inviting his mate to place a Jaffa Cake in his hand.
Instead, his friend in a playful mood, walks across and squats down a little, pulls his knob out of his boxers and places it in the palm of his mate's upturned hand. There's also the remnants of a little bit of pee from his visit to the bog minutes before.
It doesn't take very long for his friend to realise it's not a Jaffa Cake and turns to see..... how they laughed.
First guy wakes up and goes to the bog for a pee. Goes back and settles on his bed and looks around the room trying to establish if there is anything edible. He spies a packet of Jaffa Cakes on the table and goes to get it. He's only wearing his boxers. The movement around the room and the rustling of the packaging wakes up his friend, but he is too hungover to even consider lifting his head up. He just wakes up.
He hears his friend eating and asks what he's eating. He's told Jaffa Cakes. He asks for one, and reaches his arm out way behind him, palm up, inviting his mate to place a Jaffa Cake in his hand.
Instead, his friend in a playful mood, walks across and squats down a little, pulls his knob out of his boxers and places it in the palm of his mate's upturned hand. There's also the remnants of a little bit of pee from his visit to the bog minutes before.
It doesn't take very long for his friend to realise it's not a Jaffa Cake and turns to see..... how they laughed.
Saturday, 4 August 2007
Prams, Trains and Baby Ordeals
A colleague of mine gets the train home to a posh place on the way to Ayr and has to suffer the plebs that travel with her. She suffers them then tells us all about them the next day. Much hilarity.
One such incident was during the 5pm rush hour, and two young “ladies” got on with a pram.
If you think of the trains in Glasgow you could fit a pram in the area between the doors or in the area for baggage/wheelchairs. Oh no, these girls took their pram to the centre seats and jammed it in the aisle. They then took up 6 seats for themselves. My friend was sitting in the 4 seats opposite them, and was wishing she could leave.
The young mother ignored the baby's cries for a while, and my friend, being a mother herself felt like checking the kid herself.
The baby kept crying, and eventually the mother lifted it out the pram and plopped it on her lap.
The kid was in a little all-in-one suit and was trussed up so tight in many layers of clothes that it’s arms and legs were sticking straight out in a star shape. It couldn’t even move.
My friend was sitting there thinking that the baby is too warm and feels like explaining to the inexperienced mother that maybe she’d stop crying if she wasn’t wearing so many clothes.
The young mum was showing much displeasure at the child for making a noise, and in between conversing with her friend is simply telling her baby;
“Shut it.”
She then had the idea of feeding the child. Yes! That’s right, it must be hungry, so she got a bottle and jammed it into the kid’s mouth which just caused screaming. The child pushed against it…no matter, she jammed it in again and again. The child screamed against being force fed, so the girl gave up moaning;
“Whit the fuck dae ye want?” (a loving mother perhaps?).
She then put the star-shaped baby back into the pram and told it to;
“Shut it,” and she went back to chatting while the kid screamed.
She maybe should have used a condom when the Boy From Burberry was pumping her.
One such incident was during the 5pm rush hour, and two young “ladies” got on with a pram.
If you think of the trains in Glasgow you could fit a pram in the area between the doors or in the area for baggage/wheelchairs. Oh no, these girls took their pram to the centre seats and jammed it in the aisle. They then took up 6 seats for themselves. My friend was sitting in the 4 seats opposite them, and was wishing she could leave.
The young mother ignored the baby's cries for a while, and my friend, being a mother herself felt like checking the kid herself.
The baby kept crying, and eventually the mother lifted it out the pram and plopped it on her lap.
The kid was in a little all-in-one suit and was trussed up so tight in many layers of clothes that it’s arms and legs were sticking straight out in a star shape. It couldn’t even move.
My friend was sitting there thinking that the baby is too warm and feels like explaining to the inexperienced mother that maybe she’d stop crying if she wasn’t wearing so many clothes.
The young mum was showing much displeasure at the child for making a noise, and in between conversing with her friend is simply telling her baby;
“Shut it.”
She then had the idea of feeding the child. Yes! That’s right, it must be hungry, so she got a bottle and jammed it into the kid’s mouth which just caused screaming. The child pushed against it…no matter, she jammed it in again and again. The child screamed against being force fed, so the girl gave up moaning;
“Whit the fuck dae ye want?” (a loving mother perhaps?).
She then put the star-shaped baby back into the pram and told it to;
“Shut it,” and she went back to chatting while the kid screamed.
She maybe should have used a condom when the Boy From Burberry was pumping her.
Friday, 3 August 2007
Satsumas And Cellulite
Today I overheard two female colleagues talking about being on the phone and one of them trying to peel satsumas at the same time, and she became a bit pissed off.
"I just realised I pulled all the white bits off," she said pointing to a little pile on her desk.
"They're supposed to be good for anti-cellulite," said the other.
She then walked across and blamed this on her friend who are convinced the white pieces are "evil" hence the reason she subconsciously was discarding them. Well there you go.
As a man I have none of these “satsuma style” worries.
"I just realised I pulled all the white bits off," she said pointing to a little pile on her desk.
"They're supposed to be good for anti-cellulite," said the other.
She then walked across and blamed this on her friend who are convinced the white pieces are "evil" hence the reason she subconsciously was discarding them. Well there you go.
As a man I have none of these “satsuma style” worries.
Ned In A Suit
Just minutes after I passed the busker the other day, I was walking up Sauchiehall Street and passed a fire appliance with two fireman at the rear talking, in their full outfits.
In front of me were three guys. One in a suit, light blue shirt, very neat hair. To his left were two neds....trainers, polyester tracky bottoms tucked into their white socks, tracky tops tied round their waists, polo shirts and....caps perched away back on their heads.
At a safe distance from the burly firemen the guy in the suit turns and shouts back over my head...
"Neeeeaaaarrright...cun ye no' find the fire, nnyyeeeeha ha ha ha"...... all delivered in the typical Glaswegian ned's nasal tone.
His two pals in the tracksuits burst into much laughter. Oh yes, hilarious, I thought as I fantasised about beating all three of them senseless with a baseball bat.
I realised that the suited guy was just meeting up with his wee unemployed pals in his lunch hour before heading back to the office where he would immediately drop his nasal vocab and talk properly in front of his colleagues. If only they could see him in his natural habitat.
On closer inspection when passing him my observations were that his "neat" hair was in fact shaved nearly to the bone almost to the top so it resembled a small hat, his suit was a royal blue cheap piece of tat (called a "fashion suit" in the Littlewoods catalogue some years ago with the strange collar, sometimes called in Glasgow, a court suit) and dirty black slip on shoes.
I'm sure his colleagues know exactly what he is.
In front of me were three guys. One in a suit, light blue shirt, very neat hair. To his left were two neds....trainers, polyester tracky bottoms tucked into their white socks, tracky tops tied round their waists, polo shirts and....caps perched away back on their heads.
At a safe distance from the burly firemen the guy in the suit turns and shouts back over my head...
"Neeeeaaaarrright...cun ye no' find the fire, nnyyeeeeha ha ha ha"...... all delivered in the typical Glaswegian ned's nasal tone.
His two pals in the tracksuits burst into much laughter. Oh yes, hilarious, I thought as I fantasised about beating all three of them senseless with a baseball bat.
I realised that the suited guy was just meeting up with his wee unemployed pals in his lunch hour before heading back to the office where he would immediately drop his nasal vocab and talk properly in front of his colleagues. If only they could see him in his natural habitat.
On closer inspection when passing him my observations were that his "neat" hair was in fact shaved nearly to the bone almost to the top so it resembled a small hat, his suit was a royal blue cheap piece of tat (called a "fashion suit" in the Littlewoods catalogue some years ago with the strange collar, sometimes called in Glasgow, a court suit) and dirty black slip on shoes.
I'm sure his colleagues know exactly what he is.
Thursday, 2 August 2007
Primark
Prymark or Preemark? I did telephone their head office once and they answered Preemark. I think. I forget now. I should do that again.
Prymark seems to be to posher version as I found out when discussing it with someone who pronounced it Preemark when she described how she was "gaun doon the Preemark." I had to supress the urge to correct her grammar and say "Actually, you say 'Going down to Preemark."
Anyway recently I was standing in the returns queue in "Prymark", with my £2 pair of reduced jeans (should have tried them on first) I noticed with some amusement the number of older women in the queue who had the traditional haircut of someone who can't afford a fully blown hairdresser and seem to opt for the barbers instead. It is shorn very short up the back and then permed on top. Almost muffin shaped. I knew someone like this many years ago. Can't say any more, but suffice it to say I married into another family instead.
But the one I saw today was unbelieveable. The permed bit on top had a sort of red dye over it. Not completely red as you could still see the grey through it, almost as if someone had gone over it lightly with a paintbrush. It was as if it had been dyed all over and then shaved up the back as there was a perfect horizontal line with the dye stopped or maybe started.
Anyway like I said I was in the returns queue with my £2 jeans. I'm not too posh not to shop there, but I’ll still call it Prymark.
Prymark seems to be to posher version as I found out when discussing it with someone who pronounced it Preemark when she described how she was "gaun doon the Preemark." I had to supress the urge to correct her grammar and say "Actually, you say 'Going down to Preemark."
Anyway recently I was standing in the returns queue in "Prymark", with my £2 pair of reduced jeans (should have tried them on first) I noticed with some amusement the number of older women in the queue who had the traditional haircut of someone who can't afford a fully blown hairdresser and seem to opt for the barbers instead. It is shorn very short up the back and then permed on top. Almost muffin shaped. I knew someone like this many years ago. Can't say any more, but suffice it to say I married into another family instead.
But the one I saw today was unbelieveable. The permed bit on top had a sort of red dye over it. Not completely red as you could still see the grey through it, almost as if someone had gone over it lightly with a paintbrush. It was as if it had been dyed all over and then shaved up the back as there was a perfect horizontal line with the dye stopped or maybe started.
Anyway like I said I was in the returns queue with my £2 jeans. I'm not too posh not to shop there, but I’ll still call it Prymark.
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