job number 40
I’d been working on a building site on a hospital in Watford. George got it into his head that working for Sainsbury’s would be a step up. He fixed up an interview and I got the job.
The store was in Uxbridge. Supposedly one of the four biggest in the country. The first two days were dedicated to staff training. Most of which consisted of videos outlining the cost of shoplifting and the fact that if any member of staff was caught fleecing the company in any way they’d be chained to a rock and smeared in Taste The Difference Albuquerque honey. Thereby encouraging discerning ants, rodents and sweet-toothed birds to consume the fleecer’s entrails.
These videos proved to be the high point. Out on the shop floor it was the dictatorship of the petty. Fetching and carrying and stacking, and doing all these things inappropriately. Eventually they let me loose on the tills. Automated scanning tills were a novelty and no-one in the shop knew how to use them. It was the lead-up to Christmas and queues would stretch as far as the dishwasher powder aisle. I had a knack for over or under charging. Many was the up-standing freewoman of Uxbridge who noted that her bill was twelve pence out and returned to thrust this proof of my incompetence under my nose with an expression of joyous fury.
I was exiled to marshal trolleys in the carpark. In spite of the cold, this was more satisfying work. Seeing how long you could make your trolley snake, set it loose and watch it writhe its way past old ladies and shiny Ford Cortinas.
Working for Sainsbury’s felt like branding yourself as a third class citizen. I spent my regulated breaks on the phone to an employment agency, begging them to find me a way out. Before Christmas I’d escaped and was working in the most tedious job in the world, at a legal firm near Gloucester Road. I got there just in time for the Christmas party.
Sainsbury’s held off paying me my final cheque. George got so incensed that we drove up the A40 to Uxbridge together, burst in with all guns blazing, steered clear of the honey shelves, robbed a till, and high-tailed it back to Rayner’s Lane.
The store was in Uxbridge. Supposedly one of the four biggest in the country. The first two days were dedicated to staff training. Most of which consisted of videos outlining the cost of shoplifting and the fact that if any member of staff was caught fleecing the company in any way they’d be chained to a rock and smeared in Taste The Difference Albuquerque honey. Thereby encouraging discerning ants, rodents and sweet-toothed birds to consume the fleecer’s entrails.
These videos proved to be the high point. Out on the shop floor it was the dictatorship of the petty. Fetching and carrying and stacking, and doing all these things inappropriately. Eventually they let me loose on the tills. Automated scanning tills were a novelty and no-one in the shop knew how to use them. It was the lead-up to Christmas and queues would stretch as far as the dishwasher powder aisle. I had a knack for over or under charging. Many was the up-standing freewoman of Uxbridge who noted that her bill was twelve pence out and returned to thrust this proof of my incompetence under my nose with an expression of joyous fury.
I was exiled to marshal trolleys in the carpark. In spite of the cold, this was more satisfying work. Seeing how long you could make your trolley snake, set it loose and watch it writhe its way past old ladies and shiny Ford Cortinas.
Working for Sainsbury’s felt like branding yourself as a third class citizen. I spent my regulated breaks on the phone to an employment agency, begging them to find me a way out. Before Christmas I’d escaped and was working in the most tedious job in the world, at a legal firm near Gloucester Road. I got there just in time for the Christmas party.
Sainsbury’s held off paying me my final cheque. George got so incensed that we drove up the A40 to Uxbridge together, burst in with all guns blazing, steered clear of the honey shelves, robbed a till, and high-tailed it back to Rayner’s Lane.
posted by maldoror at 4:02 p. m.
4 Comments:
I remember she worked at the Sainsbury's checkout in Stevenage. She was wearing a floral shirt that influenced the purchase of another + perhaps more extravagant floral shirt. If she'd been in the checkout in Manhattan, J Mart would have said she was the best looking checkout girl he had ever seen.
Tescos...je pense...pre new labour
Gateway (now Somerfield) and Tesco for my sins. I made it as far as wine and spirits stock-control supervisor. Which is cleraly where my immense knowledge of the old vino comes from! I used to leave the house at 5am, careful not to wake my still sleeping parents.
wine and spirit stock supervisor sounds doesn't sound like a two bit job to me. It sounds like something to aspire to. And what were your parents doing asleep at 5am, the idlers. You should have woken them up and demanded a cooked breakfast. You were going to need a full stomach given your responsibilties.
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