The only (and by far
the worst) job I have ever had was at Homebase. I won't mention which
one; if I don't get a good reference out of my two and a half months
of labour in that place then I will probably have an existential
breakdown at such an outrageous waste of almost one hundred hours of
my time. Yes, that's right, I was only there for two and a half
months. I know what you're thinking—a spoilt middle-class white
teenager can't handle a little bit of hard work, he's too busy lying
in bed in his pyjamas masturbating and watching repeats of Pointless
on bbc iplayer (not at the same time though, no matter how
good-looking Alexander Armstrong may be), and while this is
irrefutably true... Homebase was really really bad, okay. Just trust
me on this one.
On my first day at
Shitbase I was shown around the shop by a balding middle-aged
depressive named Brian, who sported a wispy monobrow and an expanding
waistline. I thought he must have been on the verge of suicide when I
first met him. One of the first things he said to me was when he
pointed to the balcony overlooking the shop floor and said, 'try not
to jump from there when it all gets too much, I know it can be
tempting.' Okay Brian, thanks for the heads-up in the first
twenty-five minutes that I have ever worked, ever.
In fairness, I can see
why he chose to work there. If one wants to share their misery with
other hopelessly miserable people then what place better than one
where couples have their marriages tested to breaking-point over the
idiosyncrasies of the Dulux colour chart. (Seriously though,
voluptuous red or seductive crimson? This is important people.) Then
there's the question of whether a cylindrical or a rectangular
lampshade will ultimately give maximum feng shui to the spare
bedroom. Oh and don't forget about heart-wrenching conflict over
whether or not one should buy the floral duvet set or a checkered
duvet set. (It's a no-brainer of course, flowers are gay and checks
are awesome.)
After the customers had
been through this brain-numbing ordeal, they had to pay for their
ridiculous items through me, the checkout worker. And they were never
happy. Its probably because buying items such as paint samples and
paving slabs is the most tedious way to spend one's hard-earned
money. Anyway when they got to me they responded to my small-talk
like I had just eaten the miscarried foetus of their unborn
grandchild and burped the remains obnoxiously in their face. They
were horrified. Little alarms went off in their heads: 'oh god what
are those noises the checkout boy is making? Can those things talk? I
thought it was all self-service now.' This was when I did actually
try to make small-talk. In fairness I usually tried to zone out,
avoid all communication and pretend I was working on the checkouts in
Habitat across the road. One can dream.
Anyway I hated Fuckbase
more than life itself. It was the most monotonous, banal and
brain-shittingly dull waste of my oh so precious time. I went back
there the other day. I stopped outside the door; I was terrified
about going in. All those sad people arguing about nothing while the
bored staff pretend not to look or are too busy fantasising about
working in Habitat or are lamenting the financial state of Habitat
and how it went bankrupt and now even their dreams are dying slowly.
But I pumped myself up outside the shop. Come on, I said to myself,
it can't be that bad; you're
imagination makes it sound worse than it is. So I did eventually go
in, and the first thing I saw was Linda, a checkout worker probably
around fifty years old, and as she walked past me to return a
shopping basket from her checkout I noticed that she was crying. She
was a fully grown adult woman and she was physically sobbing with
grief at having to work in such a place. Seriously. Fuck Homebase.
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