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.

Merry Xmas to you all!

It's finally Christmas Eve and this week has seen Miss Pankhurst retire from the fray with swine flu, the ''Tiny Hands'' trade fisticuffs over whether Father Christmas actually exists or not and profit in the face of recession.
I can gladly say to all the cosmetics consultants out there, well done!
We did it!
We made it to the one important day of the year, the last  sacred day left in the retail calendar that shopping is not allowed.
Merry Christmas and a Happy Sale season to you all.
Enjoy your day off.
XXXXXXX
The Mole.

Santa and the Socially Challenged.

If you cannot pass people in a crowded shop, without, huffing. Shoving past. Performing, the emotionally crippled two step (see previous posts) or grinding your teeth.
Then, you, are Socially Challenged.
If you cannot wait to be served for more than 30 seconds without tapping your fingers, shoving yourself in between a customer and a consultant who are already interacting at this point, or interrupting a sale by saying,
'Err excuse me, yes, yes! I just wanted to know...'
Then, you, are Socially Challenged.
If you cannot acknowledge a consultant who asks you, nicely, if you need anything or you stick your hand up in their face and snap NO!
Then apart from being Socially Challenged, you need a good punching.
If you are crippled by your ego and find it hard to get past consultants that are opening drawers without tutting loudly.
Then most assuredly, you are Socially Challenged.
So now you know what you need for Christmas.
A big bag of life skills and some emotional maturity. Happy Holidays!

Ho! Ho! HO!

You know when customers talk too much they have something to hide. Certain sentences make your arse twitch like a flute players lip and you just know they are trouble.
'I'm not a shop lifter you know.'
'I didn't steal it, so why do I need a receipt?' Are two of my favourite light bulb statements. This week we heard a cracker to top those,
'You must remember me. Everyone remembers me.'
Well, my darling loud punter, we remember Princess Diana, but that is not proof of purchase is it!
Three weeks ago Miss Pankhurst got a '' Ohh I'm so wacky, I bet you have never had a customer as fun as me'' type customer. Wanted product , got product but wished to pay for it else where, yet still wanted Miss Pankhurst to wrap it. So she wraps it. The customer then went to the store restaurant, got drunk and forgot to pick up her stuff.
Three weeks later we get a ''You must remember me,'' phone call, where she kicks off about the fact that we forgot to put her products in her bag.
Well, we did remember her, but just for the record and for all of you Consultants out there, we gave her the run around of a lifetime, for a good twenty minutes.
Joy and festive cheer-a-roony!!
We couldn't find her stuff ! She had to fax over her receipt to prove she had bought it. We couldn't just defy security procedures could we? After her constant waffle, a lot of whingeing and more,
 ''But, but everyone remembers me, so why can't you send it?''
We finally, got Miss Pankhurst to phone her back so she could defend herself against the scurrilous rumour of inadequacy.
Slow torture for someone who really likes themselves and lies a lot. If only we had speaker phone. So after admitting she had lied to the first person who dealt with the query, she then fessed up to getting drunk and forgetting. By the time Miss Pankhurst relented and condescended to send it out free of charge, as a gesture of our goodwill, we like to think we had thoroughly shredded her ego. I doubt it , but we can dream.
Ho HO HO!!!!
Our big book has a black mark by that customers name.

In a Festive Mood?

 I toddled into work yesterday, in a cloud of festive cheer. The 'Tiny Hands' have Christmas Fever, there are a few squabbles over the Chocolate advent calendar, but on the whole listening to 'she child' and 'the boy' sing carols when they should be cleaning their teeth really does give me that warm glow. Well, in a matter of about five minutes, there was more Grinch than Elf in the Hall of Plenty, I can tell you.
Firstly, and I really don't know where people get off doing this, somebody put a half eaten sandwich and a very old, fly ridden, cup of coffee from some over priced coffee boutique, in my locker.
1) The lock on my locker should be enough to signify MINE , not anyone's for the taking.
2) Are the bins, that are conveniently situated five feet away from the lockers, too far to reach? Because that coffee had been sat for days. Given that I was in the day before and had used my locker, I can only assume some part time tit, had left it, come back to their locker days later and thought,
'Oh dear, I left my coffee and eeeew, look, there are flies on it. I know, I will put it somebody else's locker rather than shift my fat stupid arse and put it in the bin over there !!!!!'
Yeah you did!!
Revolted, I put the offending articles in the walkway so everyone could see them, step over them or throw them away at their leisure.
After, Manky Coffee- Dirty Sandwich Gate,  I ascended to the shop floor where the till decided to freak out. After a brief tussle with our unhelpful communications department, I called Poland to see what they could do. Yes, Poland! Apparently when your till doesn't work you call Poland, where abouts and who, I do not know but they don't answer the phones.Nobodyfrom any department can give you a straight answer as to what to do.
 I can only assume this is some bizarre way to expand the work skills of people who already have to remember over 100 product prices, every ingredient in every product, open store cards, fetch their own stock from basements the army would have trouble assaulting, provide great service, stand up all day, gift wrap incredibly small items, do paper work, deal with customer complaints, make over customers , advise on skincare, listen to whingey weirdo's, clean the ridiculously impractical sharp, shinny, crevice ridden counters and smile. So, using my very small knowledge of technical things I gave it a bloody good banging. Funny thing is, it worked straight after.
Just to top off the frustration, some daft bird waved an empty lip gloss container in my face and demanded,
'What's this?'
She had the cheek to roll her eyes when I told her, it was just that, an empty lip gloss. And then said,
'Yeah, I know that, what colour is it?'
'I don't know, it's empty.'
Wave, wave, thrust, some where about my nose and she said,
'Well, what number is it?'
'I DON'T KNOW YOU ARE WAVING IT ABOUT AND HOLDING THE END WITH THE NUMBER ONNNNNNN!!!!!!'
'Oh.'
Yeah , OH!
Problem soon solved, she was followed by an army of nut jobs; people that wanted foundations but wouldn't try them on their cheeks. Men who faffed about constantly checking, even as we were wrapping their stuff, that we had really given them what they asked for. Silly sample hunters and several people with too much to say and not buying. Favourite amongst them, was the stressed out customer who dashed around demanding lots of attention, asking the price and poking everything, telling us Xmas was a rip off and our prices were too high, only to come back and sheepishly buy the things she had looked at so disdainfully hours earlier.
I hate you all , bollocks to Xmas!

Awkward!

I've known some awkward moments, a boyfriends mother once handed me a pair of knickers over a crowded Sunday lunch table, 'Oh, you left these,' she said in a smug effort to rid her son of me.
'Actually, those are not mine,' I answered and carried on passing veg to her guilt riddled son.
That was awkward  (and a long time ago I hasten to add) but of late, I have noticed a crippling sense of awkwardness every time I need to get in a lift. Not amongst Cosmetics staff , for us even lifts are a place to create a drama, but the staff from other floors are the most angry looking, ignorant, awkward people one could ever wish not to meet.
If you have your hands full and ask them to push a button, they ignore you. If you are in the lift and try to get out, they just push past you to get in. And worst of all, if they are in the lift and you ask them to 'Hold the doors,' they simply watch you running toward it.
Yesterday however, I managed to reach the doors to a very full lift and in a fit of insanity, stuck my hands on either side of the very nearly shut doors. Doing a very good impression of Alien, I pushed the doors apart and marched into the centre of the lift staring at the opened mouthed fashion staff.
Four floors later, since I had not turned round and refused to look away from any of them, I left them cowering in the corners.
Awkward ? Yes. Could I back down without looking like a complete tosser ??? No. Did I enjoy it? Yes, I bloody well did and I got straight to the front of the cash office queue. Next week, I think I will push every button and fart loudly!

Slipper Mouth Rides Again!

Oh, you just cannot make this stuff up!
Poor old Slipper Mouth, out on the town you'd think she would be safe from social gaffyness, but No. During a trip to the theatre, she and a friend rose to dance to a very popular and well known part of the show, when she noticed the people in the rows behind were still seated.
'What a load of miserable buggers they are.' she gasped, as she leapt to the right.
'Yeah fancy sitting there when you have paid to see this.' replied her friend as they took a step to the left.
'Do you mind!' Came an indignant voice from behind.
When the lights came up row upon row of wheelchairs glinted in the house lights.

Give us a Clue.

This may not strictly be a post from events in the Hall of Plenty, but I have been known to stray from the beaten path now and again, so bear with me, it does involve some of us.
Now I drive, many people do , but we as team have noticed a certain lack of indication from the greater driving public of late. These days, you need to be Sally Morgan to know which lane drivers intend to be in and we think, using shield technology would be invaluable, if your anywhere near a taxi driver.
So when a number of us where nearly run over, by a chap in a very expensive car, just outside the Hall of Plenty the other day. I was mightily impressed when Miss Marple sauntered over , knocked on the window and said,
'Nice car, was it expensive.'
'Yeah.' he answered aggressively.
'Pity you couldn't afford the one with indicators then , eh?' she replied.
The window went back up a lot faster than it came down. And do you know what, he didn't even indicate as he pulled round us and drove off at a highly inappropriate speed for such a small road.

Rant-O-Rama at the Hall of Plenty.

You know it's weird, this time of year can bring out the best and the worst in people, staff especially. We don't have a bad job really. Yes, the public can be weird, transparently manipulative and just plain awkward. The lady last night, that had indulged in quite a large glass of champagne, then decided that the lipstick Miss White had put on her not an hour before, was making her teeth yellow and insisted she try another more 'blue' bright red, was a very good example of a pissed punter trying to get a free makeover with some tricksy explanation. Unfortunately, she was seen right through and encouraged to leave with two very obvious stripes of bright pink blusher that she was assured would fix her tooth issue.
( I have said it before, there are children dying in Africa and stupid women are bothered about their teeth being yellow, go figure!)
Anyway, it is hard enough with figures, managers and stalkers, but being mean to each other when we are all on the same side is just ridiculous. The Onion, like ogres she has layers, did just that the other day. We have a lovely 'Dippy Peacock' that works in the 'Hall of Plenty' and like everyone, sometimes he forgets things. But last week, the Onion made a decidedly mean attack on him. Apparently the Onion came to open a till in the morning and 'horror upon horror', there were no pound coins, the Bean Counters had not received instructions to supply more and there were only a multitude of fifty pence pieces in there. That being the crime of the century, she complained. Poor 'Dippy Peacock', obviously the victim of a hormone induced , Christmas fuelled, rant- o- rama!
Well, the rift has been brushed over, but I don't think it will be forgotten. And that leads us to my point nicely, come on fellow Tut pushers, as if the stupid nylon outfits and motivational pep talks are not bad enough, we don't need to start hating each other.
Let's simply be professional, a quiet word would have been more effective , don't you think?

Hell in a handcart.

Despite my seeming obsession with Dr. Who, I really am more impressed with Derren Brown, sometimes using manipulation is the easy way to get children to obey. Not that this isn't a democratic home,or that the 'Tiny Hands ' are easy to out manoeuvre, but Derren's techniques have sometimes helped.
No, I have never made them play Russian Roulette...... 'thinking'.......no, that would never happen, but the overwhelming subconscious messages you can stick up around the home are sometimes worth the effort on your day off.
What has this got to do with a cosmetics counter?
No, I do not too hypnotise my customers, before you ask.
I did however use some unconscious signals the other day.
Imagine if you can, two bottles of nail polish that are similar but to the trained eye completely different, then imagine one arsey woman at five minutes to closing.
Got that?
Right, five to closing is not the best time to start accusing the company I work for of simply making the same thing twice. So I explained,
'Actually, they are very different.'
'No, they are not, those are exactly the same colour.' she said.
'Yes that is an easy mistake to make, but in actual fact this one is red with black added and that one is black with a red tone added.'
'No, they are exactly the same.' she insisted.
'Yes , well to the untrained eye that would appear so.'
'Prove it.' she challenged.
I painted my index finger and my middle finger with the colours in question. (Enter Derren and his unconscious signals!) Then I said,
'Well , its very difficult to see under these lights, maybe if I hold them like this...' Both fingers together. ' Or if you look at the individually like this....' One finger, then the middle one. 'You can see what I mean.'
She did.

'She who must be Obeyed' worked it out simply from the fingers in question the next day. That is a well trained eye.

One handcart to hell please!

She has arrived !

Much to our delight, or terror if you were the customer at the counter that was caught up in the squealing and the jumping and the clapping of hands, that greeted the great news, she has arrived. Mother and baby are both safe and very healthy, unlike the dolphins off the coast of Scotland, that 'She who must be Obeyed' swears must have been deafened by the sonic disturbance.
We are grateful for the swift arrival of Sid and very proud of Sunday Girl!

X

It's the Most Wonderful time of Year!

So a box arrives you could fit the entire counter in, it's full of Xmas stock and after about ten minutes it is full of Miss Marple and the Mole.
Yes, on lifting out gift boxes, ensure another member of staff has you by the feet or you will drop in and as the whole thing is made of cardboard, you can be utterly assured that court shoes are designed to go right through it.
In a few weeks time getting trapped in a massive cardboard box will seem like paradise!

The first customer of the day.

'Good morning, those are lovely aren't they, would you like to try one on?'
'No! Leave me alone.'

Long silence, in which one goes back to sharpening eye pencils.

'Err hello, am I going to have to wait here all day?'
'I'm sorry?'
'I've been looking at these lipsticks for ages and I want to buy this, get it.'
'What number is that please?'
'I don't know, that's your job.'

The lipstick is identified and taken to the till.

'Would you like to follow me to the till please?'
'Oh for gods sake! I'm in a hurry.'
'The till is just here madam.'
'Yes well, get a move on, I'm in  a hurry.'
'We won't keep you any longer than necessary madam.'

The lipstick is put through the till.

'Would you enter your pin number please madam?'
'All right, don't rush me!'

The item is bought.

'Would you like a bag with this?'
'Give it here! Oh, do you have any samples?'
'No, I am afraid not at the moment. Sorry, but you can have a spray of fragrance if you like.'
'What, no samples of anything?'
'No, sorry.'
'Right, so your telling me, I just paid twenty quid for that and you don't have any samples?'
No madam, I'm sorry, we haven't got anything in.'
None of those little travel sizes, no foundation?'
'Sorry no, we don't always get them and we do run out.'
'No, little mascara's for my hand bag?'
'I'm sorry, we haven't had those for ages.'
'Yeah, right. I bet you do.'
'We don't. I am terribly sorry, but you may have a top up of fragrance.'
'Yeah, like I am going to do that when it is free already.'
'Thank you madam.'

Madam strides over and squirts herself with fragrance.

The first customer of the day.

Tears and fears.

There have been a few tears this week, mostly hysterical tears of laughter amongst the troops. Waiting for a baby isn't only hard on the Mother you know, colleagues desperate to get the first look, whip themselves into quite a frenzy too. But this week, we have had no less than three emotional moments on the counter.
The first one we got by proxy, a lady on her way to a meeting had fallen over, up the steps to the store. Luckily, one of our crack team of store detectives, picked her up and brought her to us. We patched her up, but the shock was too much, in the face of our kindness, weeping ensued. You will be glad to know that we restored her dignity, mascara and confidence, sending her fragrant and beautiful back into the world like the little cosmetic angels we are.
Our second affair was strangely beautiful. Miss Pankhurst had shored up a bad tempered, soon to be bride, whose mother declared she no longer looked like a 'washed out dishcloth', leaving them both in tears. Personally, the beauty for me, was in the rebellion I saw in the daughters eyes. Whilst they bought everything, I don't believe the 'dishcloth' will be wearing it.
Finally, I was very disturbed when a lady trying on foundation, told me about an experience she had in another store. Apparently, she had nipped in to buy something for a friend. As she browsed, a tangerine dream , fluttering her falsie's popped up to inform her that,
'These aren't for you.'
Now, she was statuesque and by her own admission a little older than the brand was aimed at, but the humiliation showed itself in the tears that slid down her face. What is the world coming to when some snotty little teenager can humiliate a woman like that?
Surely, anyone can buy anything they want, whenever they want, especially when it's make up. Because after all, it's only bloody make up!
We swear by the god of cosmetics, that such a thing will never happen at our counter. Not while 'She Who Must be Obeyed' rules anyway

The Stork Come'th.

I think I've mentioned before, my love of Sunday trading. The short day, the relaxed atmosphere. But mostly, because the people I work with are a delight on Sunday. Not that the raucous weekdays are a chore, yet I think we smile more, when we get paid a full day for the inconvenience.
 Anyway, my regular and so far unmentioned, Sunday partner in crime, has left to bring forth a girl child. After spending the last couple of months resembling a snake that has swallowed a deer, (The lack of extra weight was quite annoying when compared with the, ' Ate the Pie Shop' look, I sport during breeding.) and with only a week to go, she has finally gone on maternity leave.With much sadness and a little relief on both sides, we bid her farewell.
The final month of any pregnancy is a hard going, but even more so, when your colleagues keep sticking things on your bump and calling it 'Sid'. Highly strung and excitable, we really worked ourselves into a frenzy, especially Miss Marple. Who, last week, threw a customers entire choice of purchases back at her, when our soon to be Mum squealed excitedly. As it turned out, she had found bin bags in the cupboard.
 Ah, the things that make you happy when you are pregnant!
So, whilst we mark the hours until the results of the 'Guess the Weight' sweep stake, texting her with alternative and deeply inappropriate names for her new arrival, we wish her well.
Good luck and our deepest love. X

You wouldn't believe.......

Days off are a struggle, my first instinct after taking the'Tiny Hands' to school is to creep back under the duvet, deliberately avoiding the washing, cleaning and the rest of the stuff, your average overworked 21st century gal tries to do. The last thing on my mind is work, however yesterday, as I sat down to my breakfast I received a text from work that made me miss my mouth with porridge. With a handful of hot oats, I learnt that our Hall of Plenty was a right old Sodom and Gomorrah.
Never mind perfume in your lady garden, apparently, somebody was escorted out of the place for indulging in a touch of the 'Colombian Marching Powder' in the toilets. Apart from the obvious, it is illegal and very bad for you.
What the hell!
The place is already like an episode of 'Are You Being Served' on Acid and that, is with out chemical enhancement. Unfortunately, it did not enhance the person in questions selling ability, had they opened a few store cards, I guess it would have been rehab rather than the dole today.
In the same day, the store discovered a wonderful website, (I will not be adding a link!) that declared our 'Hall of Plenty' and its toilets, as a rather swanky place to cottage. And, I do not mean pick out floral curtains for your little place in the country.
Call me naive, but is a shop that doesn't have blacked out windows and a licence to ''massage'' the place to pop in for an anonymous liaison, between the self service cafe and luggage?
 I don't think so.
Whatever next!

Broken toes and Spider Bites.

'She who must be Obeyed', had a week off. A week, that was all!
In a series of bizarre events, that do not include customers, Miss Marple retired from the cut and thrust of daily activity, with a spider bite that had gone septic and we managed to break Miss Pankhurst foot. We don't know how, but we did.
Those of us that survived last weeks retail carnage, will be wafting  figures about in an effort avoid explaining how we broke Miss Pankhurst and what exactly, we were doing with a bottle of alcohol and Miss Marple's tights on counter.
Here's hoping Miss Marple has super powers when she gets back, the ability to climb the walls will be very handy at Christmas!

Manner's Please!

It's official, a new report out has concluded that customers are 74% ruder than they were in the 1990's.
That leads me to wonder why, I still work in cosmetics, when there are jobs out there that require you to state the bloody obvious for a living. But it is reassuring to know that customer rudeness is now a statistical fact. Weighed and measured , you have been found wanting customers!
(Well, all accept our very nice, reasonable and extremely polite customers.)
However, the rest of you should pull your fingers out!
It doesn't hurt to say, please. It certainly never killed anyone to say, excuse me. It may have hurt that customers toe the other day, when she tried to force her way into the lift, before she allowed me out. (Cosmetics consultants have lead lined court shoes for just such occasions.) But on the whole, politeness never hurt anyone.
And it was a certain lack of manners over the telephone that lead to this subject. People call us on the phone all the time. Mostly it is people just trying to talk to someone, occasionally it is a lascivious consultant angling for an alibi, but a good percentage are just patience shredding, time wasters. So when a customer calls with more than just a random....,
'You know your pink nail polish, how pink is it?'
.........and actually wants to order. You would think that they would treat us with the same courtesy, as they would if they were in the store. Not so.
Apparently, we don't answer the phone quick enough. Apparently, it is alright to tut repeatedly at the consultant because they have to check if an item is actually in and apparently, it is alright to throw down the telephone when asked to wait for a second  .
Well, when we called the lady in question back, that shocked her, she didn't think we could do that.
So, if you think rude customers are the ones you see face to face, think again.

Waxing Lyrical.

It's not often we are helpless with laughter, but if you had been there when Miss Marple was explaining why she couldn't reach the bottom drawers, you would have been too.
Life for a woman is an endless series of scrubbing, plucking, tweaking, reining it in, tanning and moisturising. When Miss Marple went to tidy 'the garden' recently, she thought,
'No. To hell with Salon prices, I'll do it myself.'
Picture then, our heroine in her immaculate new bathroom and it's wonderful tiled floor, wax strips at the ready. After the first toe curling epilation, she had to put on her i pod to drown the noise of hair tearing from flesh. Now with sweaty palms, she continued. But the hair, it pulls back you know !
With shaky, wet hands she struggled with the hedge, till an ear phone fell out. Sticking it back in, she got wax in her ear, then hair stuck to the wax, then her fingers attached to that.  Head hair drama over, Miss Marple started again. This time, she ripped out an in growing hair that started to bleed. She tried to blot it with cotton wool, that got stuck to her hand, causing her to drop the used wax strip in the other. She trod on it.
Poor Miss Marple, slipped from her perch on the edge of the bath. To be discovered on the bathroom floor, bare arsed, a heap of hair, wax, bloody cotton wool, with a wax strip stuck to her foot, by her boyfriend who heard the thump. To add insult to injury, the wax proved to be quite stubborn, sticking some toilet roll to her foot as she tried to escape.
Beauty is a dangerous business, especially to ones dignity.
Apparently, he didn't laugh as much as we did.


                

A Small Malfunction.

Somebody finally snapped.
The endless months of flinching, watching people ramming fragrance bottles up their noses, in an effort to look sophisticated and knowledgeable. The grumbling, as we resentfully shimmy over and wipe the bottles clean of stray fluids, from up the nose of some idiot with attitude. The sighs, as we march away. Only to have the next pompous cash bearer, fumble with the easily sprayable, non lid wearing bottle. Covering their complete inadequacy by then resorting to, yeah, sticking it up their snot box.

'No, no, no, don't do that. That is revolting. What do you think those paper things are for? Sorry, sorry don't mumble. You can stick a bottle up your nose, but you can't answer a question? Yes, you had better put that down, mmmmm hmm the exit is there, thank you.'

Nameless, you are my hero!
But, there will be Prozac therapy, it is inevitable.