New Year has arrived, hurrah!
In the spirit of renewal and consideration of the year past, I have decided to re-post my favourite blog from 2010, Lamb Chops. Strangely enough, New Years Eve brought a rush of mutton based make overs at the make up counters.Shoring up a face lift that resembled Laura Ashley swags made me think of this and I would like to share my best of 2010 with you, Happy New Year and may 2011 be a prosperous one to you all XX
Ah, Mutton Season.
The sun has emerged bringing with it that rarest of customers, Mutton and not just the desperate divorcee in her teenage daughters clothes. We are talking hard core, sinewy Mutton, the aged gold digger gone to seed.
Stick thin pensioner's that force new hips into skinny jeans, teetering carefully on expensive designer platforms, false nails clattering in delight at the Cruise wear Corals arrayed across the counters.Fluttering ancient blue lids at the almost dead Sugar Daddy to obtain the latest trendy lipstick, they smear haphazardly across augmented lips.
False breasts strain against delicate grey skin, like bowling balls in 10 denier tights, as they peruse the skincare, hoping that cellulite creams will support the flappy buttocks years of dedicated anorexia has left.
With carefully constructed hair, they totter from counter to counter catching up with the latest trends, veneers glinting in the store lights, manipulated snouts sniffing out the most extreme , most expensive items, dead Daddy can buy.
These women will grip on to youth, harder than Ranulph Fiennes in crampons on the North Face.
A secret pleasure for us is to bleat as they pass by, alerting our colleagues to whip out the most expensive or garish of items at the Fountain of Youth in the Hall of Plenty.
Saturday 1 January 2011
Tuesday 28 December 2010
In a corner of the Hall of Plenty
All in all, Christmas on our side of the shop floor was quite tranquil. Well, apart from those customers that crush your enthusiasm for life in general.
'What's in the box?' is a phrase that now drives Miss Marple over the edge, after a ten minute encounter with a lady from Singapore who assumed the empty display box was a prize for shopping with us.
'Do you do any deals?' is possibly likely to fetch you a mental slap, in the form of twisted lips and a slightly raised eyebrow from Miss White.
And, if 'She who Must be Obeyed' comes thundering toward you , nostrils flared, abandon any hope of asking for samples, otherwise, quite a pleasant run up to Christmas.
Not so across the floor, where some of the more flamboyant characters dwell. Apparently the day before Christmas Eve saw battle lines drawn over a great mystery, a customer had phoned to order some products and was not best pleased with the manners of the person at the end of the telephone, so she asked for the consultants name. Calling back, with a strongly worded complaint to one of the overwrought Minions of the Overseer, the customer insisted on satisfaction.
Now here comes the mystery, the consultant who was supposed to have answered the phone was actually some distance away, on her island of box sets rallying the Christmas temps, when the order was taken. So vigorously defending herself against the accusation, she left the Minions baffled. If it was not her on Angel Island, then who could it be?
An hour, one distraught temp, a tearful Minion and lots of misdirection later, the finger of doom was pointed at the feisty figure of one consultant. We shall call her Mussolini. Yes, short, manly, lots to say for herself but can't decide which side she's on, was eventually hung out to dry from a metaphorical lamppost, when the Minions finally worked it out.
Who knows what the consequences of breaking the Consultants Code are, but New Year promises to be interesting.
'What's in the box?' is a phrase that now drives Miss Marple over the edge, after a ten minute encounter with a lady from Singapore who assumed the empty display box was a prize for shopping with us.
'Do you do any deals?' is possibly likely to fetch you a mental slap, in the form of twisted lips and a slightly raised eyebrow from Miss White.
And, if 'She who Must be Obeyed' comes thundering toward you , nostrils flared, abandon any hope of asking for samples, otherwise, quite a pleasant run up to Christmas.
Not so across the floor, where some of the more flamboyant characters dwell. Apparently the day before Christmas Eve saw battle lines drawn over a great mystery, a customer had phoned to order some products and was not best pleased with the manners of the person at the end of the telephone, so she asked for the consultants name. Calling back, with a strongly worded complaint to one of the overwrought Minions of the Overseer, the customer insisted on satisfaction.
Now here comes the mystery, the consultant who was supposed to have answered the phone was actually some distance away, on her island of box sets rallying the Christmas temps, when the order was taken. So vigorously defending herself against the accusation, she left the Minions baffled. If it was not her on Angel Island, then who could it be?
An hour, one distraught temp, a tearful Minion and lots of misdirection later, the finger of doom was pointed at the feisty figure of one consultant. We shall call her Mussolini. Yes, short, manly, lots to say for herself but can't decide which side she's on, was eventually hung out to dry from a metaphorical lamppost, when the Minions finally worked it out.
Who knows what the consequences of breaking the Consultants Code are, but New Year promises to be interesting.
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