#oneaday, Day 142: Erraticism

Things haven’t been sorted back at my place yet. A letter came through the door today informing me that the electricity would be off, and the water would probably be going off at some point too. Joy! This means I pretty much have to live like a hobo for the next few days.

I’d be less embittered about the whole thing if I hadn’t looked out of the window this morning and seen the big hole which the electric company had dug and no-one in it at all. I would have thought in what probably qualifies as an “emergency” (albeit not one which is directly threatening lives) that the people in charge of fixing it might be a bit more interested in, you know, fixing it.

The letter also mentioned that there would be police patrolling around the site. So I was heartened to see two children playing inside the hole that the electric company had dug, obviously unsupervised by both their parents and the conspicuously absent police.

So that’s all good. I’ve not slept in my own bed for the last two nights. But I don’t mind, really. Of course I don’t.

Of course I fucking do. I’d like to be able to, you know, do stuff in the place that is supposed to be my home but which day by day is feeling less and less like it. I know I’m going to have to get out there at some point but being jobless at the moment I really don’t have anywhere to go just yet. It’s not through lack of trying, either.

Today was “one of those days” when everything feels like it goes badly. I got up early as I was sleeping on a friend’s floor and he had to go out to work. This wasn’t a “bad thing”, I knew it was going to happen. But when I got outside, it started raining, always a bad omen. I wandered into town to find some breakfast, and it was still raining. I spoke to a friend who was also having a terrible morning, and it quickly became apparent that today was not going to be a good day.

So I was unsurprised when I wandered back to my flat to check on things that the electricity was still off. More to the point, the people in charge had not had the foresight to remember that electronic door locks don’t work when there is no electricity. Fortunately, a chav who had had the foresight to break the basement door had left a way into the building, fortunately.

I went out again, took some photos, wandered around aimlessly, came back. Still no power. Then the power came back for a minute. Then it went away again. Now here I am.

Forgive me for the not-very-interesting posts. But I’m pissed off. Hopefully normal business will soon resume.

#oneaday, Day 141: Wet Feet

I was just about to settle down to write a blog earlier tonight when I was unceremoniously informed that it would probably be for the best if I vacated my flat.

Let’s rewind an hour or two here. I was about to settle in for a d… to have some alone time in the bathroom when I realised I was out of toilet paper. So a trip to the shop was on the cards. I gathered the universal “going outside kit” of money, keys and phone and went outside my flat.

When I got into the lobby area I could hear gushing water. I figured it was just the rain outside intensifying, but I needed a dump and no thunderstorm was going to stop me in acquiring the appropriate equipment for said activity.

I opened the door and noticed it wasn’t raining. Not only that, but I couldn’t hear the gushing water outside.

“That’s odd,” I thought. I headed back inside and followed the source of the sound. It was coming from the basement of my block.

At the bottom of the stairs, the floor was ankle-deep in water, and said water appeared to be gushing out from behind a white, locked door which, it later became clear, is an electrical cupboard.

I went back into my flat and phoned the useless estate management company who are in charge of the development. I was put on the phone with a spectacularly chavvy-sounding gentleman who offered that he could either get someone to come down tomorrow (“It’s flooding,” I pointed out.) or tonight, and that there “might be a charge” for an “emergency callout”.

Fortunately, as it transpired, there was a representative of this festival of incompetence already on site for some reason. He came and knocked on everyone’s door and informed us that they were going to turn the electricity off as the water was getting at the fuses and that was bad. He also helpfully informed us that he had absolutely no idea how long the work to fix it was going to take.

Well, thanks for that.

That, then, dear reader, is why I am lying on the floor of my friend Sam’s house blogging on my phone. Because Trinity Estates, who think “fixing a pipe” means “putting some duct tape on it” have outdone themselves.

I guess I should be grateful that they are at least fixing it. But to not be able to do stuff in my own home for an unspecified amount of time is not exactly what I need right now.

#oneaday, Day 115: Change the Script

I popped out earlier in an attempt to 1) clear my head a bit and 2) get something done. Specifically, I went out with the intentions of 1) giving my CV to a temp agency to get a crappy job so I can actually earn some money, since the supply teaching agencies are being useless right now despite repeated poking, and 2) getting something to eat.

Within the space of five minutes, three separate people in three separate establishments had proven themselves to be absolutely useless. In the world’s constant drive to be more efficient, the introduction of “scripts”, turning real people into walking, talking robots, has made even the simplest of tasks an ordeal.

First I walked into Reed, an employment agency. There was no-one at the front desk, which wasn’t an immediately good start. I looked around a bit and eventually a middle-aged woman appeared out of an office at the back.

WOMAN: Hello, can I help you?

ME: Yes, I’m looking for short-term temporary employment.

WOMAN: Oh? How temporary?

ME: Erm… temporary as in “not permanent”?

WOMAN: Tell me about you.

ME: I’m Pete. Here’s my CV. Do you need me to register with you?

WOMAN: (ignoring proffered CV) Here’s what you need to do: You need to go online to our website and register. Then apply for a job and go from there! Okay, thank you! (disappears)

ME: MAAAAAAAAAHHHHH.

Point number 1: I know you can apply online. But via their website, you have to apply for a specific job. I wanted to make myself available for short-term temp positions that I could quit at a moment’s notice in the event of something actually good coming up.

Point number 2: If you want people to apply online, why on Earth do you have a high street presence? It seems that having a publicly-accessible office is completely redundant if the staff refuse to actually do anything for you.

Next, bewildered, I wandered over to Burger King as I fancied one of their sweet chilli chicken sandwiches. I was confronted by a girl who looked about twelve.

ME: Hello. I’d like a sweet chilli chicken sandwich by itself please.

GIRL: I can’t do that.

ME: What?

GIRL: I can’t do that.

ME: No, no, I heard you. Still, what?

GIRL: I can’t do the sandwich by itself.

ME: Sure you can. You just don’t put it in the same bag as some chips and don’t pour me a drink.

GIRL: No, I mean it’s more expensive to have it by itself.

ME: What? That goes against every law of nature.

GIRL: But I can’t do it.

ME: But it gives a price for the sandwich by itself on the board up there. And it’s cheaper.

GIRL: Oh, you mean the sweet chilli Royale? I can do that.

ME: Right. Then let’s do that, shall we?

GIRL: MAAAAAAAHHHHHH.

Pro-Tip, BK: don’t have two things on your menu with almost identical names. It confuses your sales staff. And your customers.

After that, I fancied a coffee. I didn’t get a drink from BK because I specifically wanted a decent cup of coffee. So I wandered over to Costa. Inside, a lemon cupcake glared at me from within the glass case and I decided that yes, that might be a nice accompaniment too. So I wandered up to the counter, only to be confronted by another girl who looked about twelve.

ME: Hi. A medium latte and a lemon cupcake to have in, please.

GIRL: Any cakes or pastries?

ME: I just asked for a lemon cupcake.

GIRL: Oh, right. Is that to have in or to go?

ME: I also just asked for it to have in.

GIRL: Oh, right. A medium latte, right?

ME: Right.

GIRL: And a lemon muffin?

ME: No. A lemon cupcake.

GIRL: MAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH.

When I finally got my coffee, it was accompanied by a lemon muffin, not a cupcake. I didn’t complain, as muffins are more expensive than cupcakes and she only charged me for a cupcake. Take that, The System!

My point is, though, all of these incidents could have been easily avoided by the above people acting like actual human beings rather than robots. It’s unnecessary to have a script to ask people whether they want a cake with their coffee. I have never heard anyone reconsider whether they want a “cake or pastry” after being asked that question. If someone wants a cake (or pastry), they’ll generally ask for it. If they have already asked for it, you don’t really need to ask it again.

The drive to make the world more efficient by standardising everything – including the things employees say – is actually making it more inefficient. So the next time you get asked a stock question by a drone behind a counter, try responding with something they don’t expect. Like this:

COFFEE CHICK: Any cakes or pastries?

ME: Do you like badgers?

COFFEE CHICK: Uhh… is that to have in?

ME: The surreptitiously-garbled mongoose is flatulent in the willow tree.

COFFEE CHICK: Leave before I call the police.

ME: MAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH.

#oneaday, Day 107: An Open Letter to Hampshire County Council

Kalvinder Athwal
HR Assistant
Pay and Contract Support Services
Hampshire County Council
3rd Floor, Hampshire House
84-98 Southampton Road
Eastleigh SO50 5PA

Dear Mr Athwal,

Thank you for your letter of 27 April 2010, received today, which coincides beautifully with 1) my birthday, 2) [REDACTED BAD THING], 3) my unemployment and 4) my finances reaching breaking point. You are indeed correct that I left my employment with [REDACTED] on the 19th of March 2010. One would have assumed that one’s employers would be in possession of a working payroll department, however, and therefore would have had the good sense to make a note of one’s time of departure at the time one gave one’s notice.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I receive a letter today informing me that due to the incompetence of someone in your department (this was implied, you unfortunately weren’t honest enough to admit it), I have been “overpaid” to the tune of £854.65. That, as I am sure you can appreciate, is quite a lot of money, especially to someone who is not currently in full-time employment. I am sure you are “looking forward” to receiving my payment as you so politely say in your letter, rubbing your greasy hands with glee no doubt, but I am afraid to say that you will be waiting some time for your payment, whether or not you have enclosed an “official” invoice.

You see, Mr Athwal, your department’s incompetence does not only stretch to continuing to pay people after they have left their employment – with several months’ notice, I might add – but also to failing to issue them a contract of employment in the first place. I joined [REDACTED] in November 2009 and left in March 2010. By my calculations, I was working there for some five months, during which time I asked on a number of occasions when I would be issued with an “official” (there’s that word again) contract. Unfortunately, I never received one of these contracts, meaning that I am technically not bound to any of the terms and conditions associated with said non-existent contract. Considering your department is called “Pay and Contract Support Services” and that you have failed to show any degree of competence in either of those areas, I would strongly suggest that the Council saves its money and asks that you all find something else to do with your time. Perhaps they can “overpay” you after your departure too. But – oh no! – with your department closed, who will write the politely worded yet threatening letters regarding “recovering the amount overpaid”?

In the meantime, I enclose a copy of your invoice, which I invite you to take in hand, roll into a tight tube and then jam straight up your arse.

Yours sincerely,

Pete Davison