Tuesday, May 11
Work And No Play...
First, great news everyone! Due to my inability to respect technology, my laptop has packed up. Refuses to recognise the C Drive, and clicks like a dolphin on viagra. While I totally forgot to back up my vital coursework due in for Thursday, I did save my collection of updates. How very organised of me. However, this mean that once I exhaust my (limited) backup supply of updates, I may be stuck.
However, my dads taking it to his clever computer tech man, and hopefully it will be sorted by tomorrow. Meaning I can rush 2000 odd words on Futurama before it has to be in, and I can get back to writing my nonsense.
So, today's scheduled update.
Well now, how do I earn money for all my drugs, CDs, little plastic men, etc, then? I work in a chemists. Some of you may call it a pharmacy, some of you may call it a drugstore, some of you may call it a twattybollocks, its nearly all the same thing.
Now lets milk this idea and turn it into an update.
At about 9am every Saturday, I come plodding in, having spent two hours doing my paper round, twenty minutes steaming home, half an hour getting ready, and ten minutes driving there. Add forty minutes if Dad's away, because Mum seems to forget that I can't drive.
Then, I indulge in an exercise in determining how hungover I am; loading precise amounts of purified water into our photo developing machine. I get this right if I'm sober, and spill loads if I spent the night before drinking. Although one night, I had ended up smoking so much weed I was still stoned the next day. Made it an interesting morning, I can tell you.
Then I start shifting glass bottles, paper bags, and titanicly large tins/boxes of baby milk from the stock room to the shelves on the complete opposite end of the shop. Being a 6 foot bloke may be good in some aspects, such as being able to see over small things and tower over the short, it does mean that all the heavy lifting and high shelf stacking lands on me, everyone else either being too female, or too occupied doing clever things with drugs to do it.
By then, someone will have dropped off some photos to be developed. This job gets delegated to me because 1.) Hot Girl I Work With is doing clever things with invoices 2.) I know how to do it and 3.) Nobody else can be arsed to.
Converting films into wodges of photographs is done like this:
1.) Take film.
2.) Spend half an hour trying to fish the end of the actual film out of the plastic case, using a suave film-grabbing doohicky.
3.) Tape end of film to a sheet of plastic and run it through developing machine.
4.) [Insert twenty minutes to twiddle thumbs.]
5.) Chop off end of film, and stick it into photo printing machine.
6.) Marvel at pictures of dogs/flowers/buildings/tits
7.) Adjust colour, misframed pictures, etc.
8.) Print.
9.) Get shouted at because its printing on the wrong sort of paper.
10.) Change paper.
11.) Print (again)
12.) Chop up negatives with cool negative-chopping machine (basically, a lightbulb, a razorblade and a ruler, with plastic sheets)
Once that's done, its a brisk walk across Chesham to pick up repeat perscriptions. Once I return, I bandage up the sixteen knife wounds I recieved on the way there, then...
Nothing.
Save serving the odd batch of customers, developing other films that come along, or [sick]dust shelves[/sick], there's little to do until lunch.
Then I fill my arteries with wodges of MacDonalds brand fat, and continue with the mornings Nothing.
At some point, everyone will hide in the dispensary out back and start a convosation about either pet care, hair care, or obscure technical car things that goes completly over my head. Whats wrong with saying "a mini. A black one." is beyond me.
In the late afternoon, once the scheduled allotment of car-jargon has been used up, I either end up vaccuming the shop with a vaccum that I swear is older than me, or wash up the seventeen million cups, twenty thousand spoons, and one hundred and two plates that four people generate in eight hours.
Then I phone my Dad, for predictable reasons and with predictable results. Take this example as being done a 5pm on the dot (although it will vary by half an hour either way...)
"Hi Dad, can you pick me up at quarter past five?"
"Rightyo. See you in fifteen minutes!"
Forty five minutes later, my Dad will arrive. I wake up everyone, and then I go home. Then pizza. Yum, pizza. Then, either the Saturday Getting Stoned Session, or the Saturday Gig. Or, as it may be, sleep. Its hard, lifting six cans of baby milk, at once.
However, my dads taking it to his clever computer tech man, and hopefully it will be sorted by tomorrow. Meaning I can rush 2000 odd words on Futurama before it has to be in, and I can get back to writing my nonsense.
So, today's scheduled update.
Well now, how do I earn money for all my drugs, CDs, little plastic men, etc, then? I work in a chemists. Some of you may call it a pharmacy, some of you may call it a drugstore, some of you may call it a twattybollocks, its nearly all the same thing.
Now lets milk this idea and turn it into an update.
At about 9am every Saturday, I come plodding in, having spent two hours doing my paper round, twenty minutes steaming home, half an hour getting ready, and ten minutes driving there. Add forty minutes if Dad's away, because Mum seems to forget that I can't drive.
Then, I indulge in an exercise in determining how hungover I am; loading precise amounts of purified water into our photo developing machine. I get this right if I'm sober, and spill loads if I spent the night before drinking. Although one night, I had ended up smoking so much weed I was still stoned the next day. Made it an interesting morning, I can tell you.
Then I start shifting glass bottles, paper bags, and titanicly large tins/boxes of baby milk from the stock room to the shelves on the complete opposite end of the shop. Being a 6 foot bloke may be good in some aspects, such as being able to see over small things and tower over the short, it does mean that all the heavy lifting and high shelf stacking lands on me, everyone else either being too female, or too occupied doing clever things with drugs to do it.
By then, someone will have dropped off some photos to be developed. This job gets delegated to me because 1.) Hot Girl I Work With is doing clever things with invoices 2.) I know how to do it and 3.) Nobody else can be arsed to.
Converting films into wodges of photographs is done like this:
1.) Take film.
2.) Spend half an hour trying to fish the end of the actual film out of the plastic case, using a suave film-grabbing doohicky.
3.) Tape end of film to a sheet of plastic and run it through developing machine.
4.) [Insert twenty minutes to twiddle thumbs.]
5.) Chop off end of film, and stick it into photo printing machine.
6.) Marvel at pictures of dogs/flowers/buildings/tits
7.) Adjust colour, misframed pictures, etc.
8.) Print.
9.) Get shouted at because its printing on the wrong sort of paper.
10.) Change paper.
11.) Print (again)
12.) Chop up negatives with cool negative-chopping machine (basically, a lightbulb, a razorblade and a ruler, with plastic sheets)
Once that's done, its a brisk walk across Chesham to pick up repeat perscriptions. Once I return, I bandage up the sixteen knife wounds I recieved on the way there, then...
Nothing.
Save serving the odd batch of customers, developing other films that come along, or [sick]dust shelves[/sick], there's little to do until lunch.
Then I fill my arteries with wodges of MacDonalds brand fat, and continue with the mornings Nothing.
At some point, everyone will hide in the dispensary out back and start a convosation about either pet care, hair care, or obscure technical car things that goes completly over my head. Whats wrong with saying "a mini. A black one." is beyond me.
In the late afternoon, once the scheduled allotment of car-jargon has been used up, I either end up vaccuming the shop with a vaccum that I swear is older than me, or wash up the seventeen million cups, twenty thousand spoons, and one hundred and two plates that four people generate in eight hours.
Then I phone my Dad, for predictable reasons and with predictable results. Take this example as being done a 5pm on the dot (although it will vary by half an hour either way...)
"Hi Dad, can you pick me up at quarter past five?"
"Rightyo. See you in fifteen minutes!"
Forty five minutes later, my Dad will arrive. I wake up everyone, and then I go home. Then pizza. Yum, pizza. Then, either the Saturday Getting Stoned Session, or the Saturday Gig. Or, as it may be, sleep. Its hard, lifting six cans of baby milk, at once.
