overheard

(A couple passing the shop are having a heated debate about her new haircut).

boyfriend: for the same money I could get some crap from Taiwan, or wherever, that would last 6 years! Give it 6 weeks and you’ll want to get it done again!

girlfriend: I’m stunned you even bloody noticed…

caffeine nazis vs coffee monkeys

I was sent a link to this fascinating blog:

http://www.andiamnotlying.com/2008/murky-coffee-arlington-hold-that-espresso-between-your-knees/

Feel the bile! Ingest the vitriol! Read as much as you can bear! (Note that The Washington Post picked up the story indicating that the economy is not in the dire straits that we think it is if they can expend time and energy on such a topic).

I read the whole thing (it was a slow day) and as a result have analysed my feelings on the subject of Coffee Nazism vs Customer Requests with reference to the points raised:

1. yes, ‘barista’ is a ridiculous pretension when on a passport, but we all need to be able to label ourselves for the benfit of petty bureaucracy: ‘purveyor of hot, caffeinated beverages and table wiper’ is too long to fit – Coffee Bitch is better, but not everyone wants to be refered to as a quadruped (and Tim prefers ‘Guardian of the Bean’ anyway. Go figure).
2. when using any service I want said provider to be both capable and conscientious – I want my solicitor to know the law, my accountant to be able to count and my barista to be able to pour me a non-bitter latte without burning the milk. A small amount of pride in doing a job well is not a bad thing – arrogance and discourtesy exhibited by either customer or server is.
3. there are a number of otherwise respectable individuals who take delight in getting something for nothing. They ask for a drink in such a way as to save themselves 35p, requesting a ‘cappucino with absolutely no foam, filled to the top’ which would be a latte, extra shot, to anyone else. Yes, harmless, but do it regularly, neglecting to say please or thankyou (or even hello) and you are remembered as the cheapskate arsehole who can’t even muster the social grace to acknowledge that you are dealing with a real, live person, not BT’s automated service menu. This is why the coffee monkey doesn’t like you and will only fill the cup 2/3: they don’t care that you are attempting a pathetic con, they care that you are rude.
4. when working for a chain a barista’s job description starts and ends with ‘adhere to company policies at all times’. These policies are myriad, convering everything from shots-in-a-latte to blood-spillage-procedure. They are confusing to customers and staff alike, and appear to be based on avoiding potential litigation and/or disturbing the area manager after 4pm. As long as the staff are polite, give ‘em a break: they think it’s as stupid as you do, but they are not free to pass comment if they want to continue working there.
5. in comparison an independent establishment has only one rule: Don’t Go Bust. The quality of the product and efficient execution of its preparation is the main selling point, with a side order of personality. Adherence to this is seen as paramount as it is the only way of distinguishing your shop from the one next door.

I’m with poster Kelly who stated a ‘no-self-respect-policy of anything for money’. Tell us how you want it and if you are prepared to pay for it – and if it is physically possible and legal, Mr ‘Nip O’ Whisky’ – we’ll make it.

Just remember – play nice. It’s only coffee.

square eyed venus

When I lived in Edinburgh the flat was bang in the centre of the city, mere seconds from a myriad of distractions, and it came equiped with cable.

When I relocated to Glasgow the first flat we bought was not only above a pub, but a Sky dish was included in the sale.

Six months into the business and the travelling was either wildly expensive (taxis) or ridiculously convoluted (bus; walk; tube; walk, except on Sundays when the buses were random and the subway closed. I was routinely late.) We moved.

When we sold the East End flat, the penultimate night of our occupation was a celebration of Criminal Minds: the episode ended with a lead character lying on the window seat of her house as a shadowy figure crept up - a gunshot sounded – what happened??! I don’t know!! Tune in, next time, to..!

So Colin packed the last of our crap into cardboard boxes with the immortal words “wouldn’t it be funny if we couldn’t even get NTL??” Sure enough no NTL, shit reception and the obligatory introduction to a whole new world of digital boxes. The picture was often shaky, routinely froze during the climax of the show and more often than not prevented you from either viewing or listening (or sometimes both). Due to totally unrelated circumstances (yeah, right) we moved.

Now we live in a very nice converted townhouse-flat. It’s shiny. It’s cute. It has a dishwasher. And the ariel fell off the roof  6 months ago, preventing any terrestrial televisual viewing.

I am too technologically incompetent to download.

I now rely on Blockbuster.

My life sucks.

overheard

(A 20-something female student is walking down Woodlands Road, red-eyed and snot-smeared, sobbing loudly into her mobile phone).

FS: And then he said it was because I was over-emotional! Me!!

If I had a hammer

I normally wander along to GLR on Great Western Road whenever I have a DIY need. It’s not just that I want to Support My Local, although that is one reason for using it. It’s not even that they have such a precariously balanced array of random stock that you can squeeze through the aisles secure in the knowledge that should someone pull out a small box from a low shelf, the resulting tsunami of widgets and thingamys would ensure that your body would remain buried until dust-to-dust became a reality, thereby furnishing your nearest and dearest with a welcome cheque without the need to purchase a canoe. No. The main attraction of this emporium of dusty hardware is the cutting repartee of the married proprietors: alternating between thinly veiled sarcasm and outright insult, their banter is not without affection - think Basil and Sybil Fawlty before the honeymoon ended. Pure class.

Despite the towering displays and aural distractions (which would normally have the same effect as chocolate by the newsagent’s till) I only ever seem to buy large boxes of polyfilla and blackboard paint. It was pointed out that you can make bomb from anything (which is one answer to the waterpipe problem, I suppose) but I need it to replace large swathes of wall destroyed by various neighbours. One “definitely doesn’t have a pipe that leaks”  into the mezzanine. Apparently his plumber is “really good”. Yeah. Effin’ god-like. He stood 10 feet away from the hole with his eyes shut and told me it was either “melting ice (in July??) or rainwater” (on the only dry day in weeks, 2 feet into the building through a foot-thick wall?) I crossed my arms, tried to raise an eyebrow and settled for some of the aforementioned polyfilla and the strategic placement of a large plant pot. At least watering the palms won’t add to my water bill.

The other chunk of wall was hammered out by my other neighbour’s plumber (are you seeing a theme?) in a vain attempt to source a leak. My plumber cut a discreet hole in the baseboard. His plumber thumped a huge lump out of the only wall that could not possibly have pipes behind it. (I’d like to mention that I let him in to “have a look”, not feng shui my gyprock - a point which I will be making next time I see the patronizing git).

So. I’ve started stock-piling filler in anticipation of the next man to verbally pat li’l old me on the empty head: I’m going to pierce the internal bags, fill them with water from the non-existant leak and let them set like bricks. I’ll then fling them, full force, at these chromosomal incompetents until they leave, dragging their expertise behind them. Either that, or paint the blocks black so they blend with the panelling, build myself a bunker and sit in it, keening, whilst these self-proclaimed geniuses bring the walls down around my ears.

water torture

I haven’t posted in a while because, well, I just couldn’t find the energy. One of the many unanticipated side-effects of becoming your own boss is the sheer, bone-squashing exhaustion that accompanies you at all times: no matter how early you go to bed, and no matter how late you rise, you can never get enough sleep.

The most golden rest I have enjoyed in the last 2 years was the one after the morning after the night before: I got so plastered that I (apparently) threw a shoe at L’s head, danced in a cage, dribblingly bested (verbally, of course) a wannabe WAG and then forgot where I lived. The following morning I was in such pain that I could barely move my eyelids, let alone the rest of me, and when W called so that I could wish her a happy birthday I could only force out “I have to vomit” before hanging up. 12 hours later I felt up to tea and toast, and when I awoke the next morning, after a recouperative 9 hour nap, I felt renewed. That, of course, barely lasted the week.

Although I now know how to get a restful nights sleep, I do not have the means with which to actually do it. I cannot justify spending that much on booze just to release some tension; I cannot justify paying someone to stand in the shop for the 48 hour period required for maximum effect; I cannot justify shutting the shop for the duration of my hangover. I may, however, soon have justification forced upon me. There is a communal pipe, accessible only through my floor boards, that needs maintenance and the situation is full of those complexities that accompany any attempt to get a disparate group (whose only commonality is residential location) to act in cohesion, but the salient points are:

1. I have no idea how long the work will take or, indeed, how much the eventual cost may be.
2. As a communal issue everyone in the block must pay a share and until the cheques are in no work can commence – which is unfortunate as one person in particular is habitually remiss in covering their share of charges.
3. Other residents are withholding payment in the hopes that it will force our tardy contributor to rectify the outstanding balance on the account and allow work on the roof to get underway. Understandably, they are tired of covering the excess and they want their money back. Unfortunately, it seems to be only me suffering as I live with a fluctuating odour (think puddles, not sewers) that will only abate when the pipe is repaired.
4. I have no idea how much notice I will be given (I hope for a minimum of 48 hours) or how much access will be required: I therefore have to pack the entire of the ground floor into the first floor and hope that damage will be minimal.
5. The minute the floor is up I will cease to trade (thank Graham for Interruptions Insurance) and then I will have to put it all back together before I can open the doors again, but the initial payment will only source the problem – it will be unlikely to cover the repair. Refer to points 2 and 3 for possible behaviours.

I don’t want to close, but the work has to be done, and I am torn between wishing for a few days away from the business and hoping for several weeks respite from the unremittent stress of having no one to blame but fate for this latest turn of events.

I have been fortunate enough to realise a dream which, by my reckoning, is worth a little lost sleep. I have had weeks of radiant happiness, reveling in the knowledge that I made this, and it is good. More recently those days have been filled with doubt, fear and anger at the damage done by things that are simply outside of my control.

Therefore, in an attempt to normalise an otherwise infuriating circumstance, I am choosing to see this as a free holiday. I can look forward to lie-ins and couch-lazing. I can enjoy time off that doesn’t require military planning. I can make mine a double.

See you in the Ish.