Wool Shop Part 3

“Oh no, Cruella’s back - that’s the end of our fun,” says Sandra glumly, as she spots a gaunt figure stalking across the shop floor towards us.

I'd already guessed that Karen, the floor manager, must be back from her holiday, as there was a box of strange Spanish biscuits on the staff room table.

“Hola, Karen,” I say as she opens the till drawer and swaps a bag of pound coins for a twenty pound note.  “Did you have a nice time?”

“Too hot,” she answers sourly. 

Well, what did she expect?  I can’t see any reason to go to Gran Canaria, apart from the sunshine.  It was full of transvestite bars and drunken hooligans when I last went.  Mind you, I got pretty legless myself on that aniseed drink they give you free in all the restaurants.  Sick as a dog the next morning – now I can’t even look at an aniseed ball without feeling bilious.

“Oh, that’s good.  It’s been raining here all week,” I say, to rub it in.

A scrawny, tanned woman trots up to the counter on high heels and I’m glad of the interruption.  I can’t stand listening to people moan about their holidays – they’re lucky to get one.  Blimey, mutton dressed as lamb or what?  Her over-processed hide is all crepey around the décolletage - she looks like a leather handbag I used to have.

“Excuse me, do you sell Bedazzlers?” she asks.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what one is.  What do you use it for?”

“It’s for bejewelling things.”

“Do you mean a vajazzler?” 

What the hell did I say that for?  Fortunately, Karen was too busy filling out a stock adjust form to notice.  “No.  I’m sorry.  We only have self-adhesive rhinestones.” I add quickly, to cover up my faux pas and the woman turns on her heel with a look of disgust and stomps out of the shop.  Honestly, they expect you to stock everything nowadays.

I wonder why Karen is looking at me like that?  She points at my feet with her biro.  “Shoes, Carol.  You’d better not let Mr Greaves see you in trainers.”

“They’re black ones.” I answer, pathetically.  I know full well we’re supposed to wear proper shoes.  I’m about to explain why I’m wearing them, but she gives me one of her arched eyebrow sneers as she steams off with a handful of forms for the cash office.

“I wonder if she had a holiday romance?” Sandra asks, when Karen has disappeared.  We both laugh.  The thought of Karen being romantic is too much; although she sometimes talks about her cats, so she must have a softer side.  She just keeps it well hidden at work.  We’ll have to be on our best behaviour now; not chatting at the counter - until she goes on her break, at least.  

My next customer places two balls of crochet cotton on the counter and says politely, “I’m sorry about the smell - I have a bag of mussels with me.”

I don’t really know how to respond to that, so I tell her not to worry; some of our customers pong a bit anyway, so you get used to such things.  That probably wasn’t the most tactful thing to say.  I can see what she means – there is a distinctly fishy aroma around the till area once she’s gone.

“It’s not me.” I say later, as a woman walks past sniffing and shoots an accusing look in my direction.  It doesn’t look like she believes me; probably thinks I’m part of the ‘great unwashed’ because I work in a shop.  I give her my cheesiest smile and ask, “can I help you?”

That got rid of her.  You can spot the ones who don’t want to interact with shop assistants; you’d think it was beneath them, or something, although I pride myself on my customer service skills.

Karen’s back from the Manager’s office, with a smirk on her face.  “I hear you had a reprimand yesterday,” she says.

It’s true.  Yesterday, a customer made a complaint about my attitude; which is a ruddy cheek.  It was the woman on one of those mobility scooter things that was at fault.  Like a bull in a china shop, she was.  Once she’d knocked over an entire shelf of mugs, she managed to snag one of the knitting bag handles on her wheel and drag it all round the room.  Then she kept on bashing her way past the merchandise stands like she was driving a bulldozer. 

When the manager called me into his office later, I wondered if Sandra had twigged about me moving the mug stand and had dobbed me in, but she hadn’t.  Mr Greaves said the customer had phoned to complain, as she’d overheard me saying to Barbara that she was a “tank”.  To be honest, I thought she’d gone by then, so it’s a fair cop.  I didn’t mean it as she implied though – I wasn’t referring to her enormous size, just her bloody awful driving.  Those scooters do weigh a ton though and with her bulk on top of it...  I should know - she backed over my foot as she tried to get away from the carnage.

“Did you hear what her punishment is?” Barbara pipes up.  “Carol has to go on a disability awareness course!”

They all think this is hilarious, of course.

“I should be suing her,” I say.  “Why do you think I’m wearing trainers?  I couldn’t get my work shoes on this morning, because my bloody foot’s swollen from having her Sherman tank reversed over it!”

That wiped the smug look off Karen’s face.  I don’t care anyway, there’s bound to be free cake on the disability course, and if I can persuade Mr Greaves to send Sandra with me, then it should be a good crack.  Anything that gets me out of this madhouse for the day is fine by me.