Another Part In The Saga In Which I Hate My Job
Things are getting somewhat ridiculous at Skipton Building Society.™ I dyed my hair Cosmic Blue™ yesterday, and today, upon walking in, Karen comments on it in a positive light, whilst Lauren looks in horror. Lauren is my manager. Due to reasons relating directly to my idiocy, I didn’t bring my bag to work today; in my bag was my shirt. Apologising frantically, I near ran home to pick up my shirt. In my haste, I managed successfully to get home, get changed, smoke a cigarette and get back to work in a mere half an hour.
Upon getting back I was called into the office by Lauren. I was pretty sure at this point that this would be absence related; I soon discovered it was not. My hair, it seems, is blue. I knew this, but had been hoping that I could get away with it. I cannot. She said that she’d have sent me home to “deal with it” this very day, but as we’re pretty short staffed I’m going to have to sort it out over the weekend.
This’d be all fine and dandy and everything, other than the fact that I’m skint (remember yesterday’s mention of bank charges? Currently I’m over my limit by £30, with an additional £50 to be added tomorrow, and all the while I’m being charged £5 per day), I resent the notion that somebody else dictates to me what I should look like.
One of my main pet hates is my control being inversely affected; I like to be in control of my life. I realise that my financial situation may imply otherwise, but it’s all my own doing. It’s perversely reassuring to know that if I fuck up, at least it’s me fucking up, if you know what I mean. Fail or success, it’s my doing. So some bleach-blonde-highlighted, jumped up, sanctimonious, self-important, anal retentive bitch posing as manager and telling me what to do with my fucking hair makes me just a little bit mad. I then proceeded to attack my forearms with scissors, which, whilst stupid, did relieved aggression I’d have had to have taken out on my immediate surroundings and “superior.”
I realise this is turning my diary into something resembling a thirteen-year-old’s el jay, but I really, really, oh-so-truly hate my life right now. Somebody kill me.
Shit like that
Yes, it’s been one week (that’s seven days, count ‘em) since I last received a paycheck and already I am being fucked over by bank charges of a most egregious nature. However, as this is all I use my diary to complain about, I’m not going to go into it. What I will say to ease your collective mind is that all the bills, loan repayments and the like have been paid (or at least arrangements have been made), so all that was left was the FUNd. Of course, I do need to eat out of that, but we’ll cross that bridge when it comes to it, I guess.
If I could actually find someone to buy the KT Tunstall tickets from me (eBay set fire to my auction after an hour) I could recoup some expenses. That’s not a hint, by the way, it’s a blatant advertisement.
I’ve just received new of my first residential training event. I can not wait to go, it looks fantastic. I get to spend three nights in a hotel instead of my own bed, I have to eat at regimented times or I don’t eat at all (after all, why allow you to train from home where all the food you’ve bought actually is) and I am away from my friends, my girlfriend and most importantly my internet connection. If my computer was a laptop, no problem. I could work on a few comics, scan them in and colour them whilst in Skipton, but alas, it is not. Thankfully, they’re not putting such a regimented schedule on my time before 9 and after 5, so I hope to Xenu that my hotel room has a desk.
Man, I can’t actually recall a time when I’ve been this reluctant to be going somewhere. It’s not just the fact that I have to miss my gig, though that does smart some. I hate the company, and I hate training sessions. Training sessions for chain stores essentially involve some smartly dressed man (preferably white and with shiny, shiny teeth) yelping buzzwords and getting us to give service with a smile. The latter part, admittedly, is merely annoying. It’s the fucking buzzwording and phraseology that gets me. I don’t need my potential maximised, and I don’t actually care about your ethos dedicated to maximum conversion. It’s all just a silly game. I’ve always seen customer service in somewhat simple terms: be nice to people, be courteous, be polite and be accurate. If they still don’t like you, then that’s their problem and not yours. So why do I need to spend
three fucking days in Yorkshire to fing this out professionally?
I’m feeling pretty low. In fact, this isn’t really all that new. I’ve been feeling somewhat terrible for the past month and a half now. Nothing really big or anything, it’s just that my life isn’t going anywhere but down, and though there are good bits where I feel ace and I laugh and dance to bad music, this feeling is lowering my average. The feeling was crystallised by a call made to HMV today. They offered me the Christmas temp position, and Russ even pulled some strings to get me started very soon. However, given that I can’t afford to live on £7.50 an hour, £5.45 for fewer hours seems non-doable.
It was the hardest phone call of my later life, and it would have made my grandma proud. I turned down the only job I have ever truly loved in order to take a career in finance for the money.
I fucking hate my grandma. No bullshit.
It’s 12.54pm now. Bored. And the ridiculous thing is that Blogger.com is banned by work for being “Non-Business Use”, so it’ll only be on the internet as of hometime. Which, what with Sam meeting me from work, will be around 7. God, I’m so hungry. I don’t actually know what I can afford to eat. Maybe a sandwich from Greggs. My good lord I want to kill myself soon. Things are getting somewhat tiresome.
