The Magic of The Cuppa.
30 December 2014 • British, cafe, coffee, coffee coffee coffee, coffee date, coffee shop, cup of tea, cuppa, dates, independent coffee, opinion, social norms, tea
It’s
a stupid British stereotype that all of our problems can be solved by
just one cup of tea; I’m guessing it must have come about some time
around the war era, when women wore the cutest little picnic party
dresses and would use tea dates to socialise and appease in equal
measure. For years, relatives and old friends would meet up and
converse, catch up and mediate over cups and mugs; my family all do
our best to arrange a tea-date every other weekend, usually in the
grandparents’ conservatory, with leftover Christmas napkins on our
laps and a steaming cafetière on the fold-out coffee table, ready to
do our bidding and give us a buzz.
Social
media gets clogged up more and more nowadays with images of
pretty-patterned teacups and plates of cupcakes, endless posts
celebrating the miracle properties of a bag of leaves soaked in
boiling water with a teaspoon of sugar and a little sloshing of milk.
Over
the past few years, we’ve been putting an American phrase into play
when we ask someone out casually: “Fancy a coffee sometime?” –
this wouldn’t have worked for me as such – the guy I fancied was
a barista at my coffee joint of choice – but it’s generally a
foolproof flirty suggestion.
Why,
though? I’ll tell you why I think it is…a coffee date can be
anything you want it to be.
I
recently advised a friend of mine, let’s call him Chad, on the best
way to ask a girl out without endangering a burgeoning friendship –
invite her out for a cuppa. Meet up in town, have a wander about,
browse some shops if you must, then set up camp on a comfy leather
sofa in your favourite cafe, get double-shot lattes (to ensure
there’s enough energy between you, no awkward yawning during
conversations – hot chocolates with extra cream and chocolate
stirring sticks also work for this, sugar highs are not to be
underestimated), and have a nice natter. See if the conversation gets
going, takes flight; see if the first casual cup becomes a second
round, or a boozy beverage later on in the day, or even a table for
two in the local eatery. You never know…
I love
coffee dates. There’s something about steamed milk and perfected
espresso; something about holding a cup in your hands and looking
over at someone as you bring it to your lips…it gives me peace. The
sceptics in this world will claim it’s simply the comfort of having
your hands occupied with something as you talk, and that the same
could be said for rolling and smoking, completing a puzzle or
juggling flaming batons…maybe.
I
personally believe it’s the powers of the bevvies.
This
is partly why I love my current occupation so much – I get to serve
the miracle brews and see them work their magic. Later on, when I’m
washing up cups and saucers, I often wonder if my humble creations
have assisted the paying public masses in talking through issues
they’re having with one another, getting to grips with a new job,
seeing if a spark will ignite, or just waking up in the morning.
Now,
while we’re talking (or rather, I’m preaching) about the wonders
of the cuppa, I feel it’s necessary to set some firm ground rules
and gentle guidelines for any hot drink date:
If
they buy the first round, you buy the second. Same rule
applies in the pub. If you’ve been sitting awhile with empty mugs
before you, conversation still flowing and no sign of leaving the
cafe within the next half hour, take the initiative and offer a
refresher. Okay, fair enough if it’s five of you crushed around a
tiny table and wedged awkwardly in place on chairs stolen from other
tables – then you’re off the hook. But if it’s just the two, or
maybe three, of you…at least offer. And maybe if they decline, or
it looks like there’s no time, just say ‘okay, I’ll owe you
one’ (then try and remember you said that the next time you meet up
and grab a cuppa to go, right?).
Don’t
make a massive point of ordering a ‘skinny one’. Fair
enough if you prefer skimmed milk and order it every time without
fail, but don’t add on a panicked ‘SKINNY PLEASE, SKINNY!’ as
your barista turns to pour out some milk for your order. People in
the queue (and often behind the bar) will quietly roll their eyes at
you. Just slip it into the initial order – “small skinny latte,
please”. Simple as.
If
you take a photo of your cups, for Instagram purposes, maybe let your
date/colleague/mother know. Not only is it super annoying if
they don’t realise you’re trying to get a perfect pic of
untouched cuppas and immediately snatch up their beverage just as
your camera clicks, but sometimes logging into Facey B/Insta/Twits
later on and seeing your drink (and knees, usually) were papped
without your consent can be a little unnerving. Now I won’t
lie, as a barista, I personally aspire to be so good at making
cappuccinos that someday someone will take a photo of, attacking it
with filters and soft focus and uploading it for all to see. So by
all means do it...just be upfront about it. Acknowledge your
shameless hipster tendencies.
Know
your limits. Again, same as in the pub; know how many cups
you can have before you either shoot through the ceiling, shake so
violently you cause an earthquake, or soak through your trousers with
steaming caffeinated pee.
At
some point in your life, try and date a barista. You won’t
regret it. They know when something’s just hot enough, they have
the best idiot-customer stories, they always smell delicious and
they’ll clean until it sparkles. They can also hook you up with the
good stuff and they know the way you like it…I think that Lorelai
Gilmore made a noble and ingenious decision when she kick-started a
real relationship with Luke Danes. Not only is he hunky as can be,
beautifully sensible and astoundingly generous – he also makes the
best coffee in town. She had the right idea.
Follow
these rules and you’re golden. For those of you at home reading
along and still not convinced, still not enamoured with espresso or
yearning for that one perfect shade of Earl Grey, stop lying to
yourself.
The
sooner we accept this fact, the better: countless life problems can
be solved simply by boiling the kettle.
He just sleeps.
14 December 2014 • amwriting, creating, creative, creative piece, creative writing, Fantasy, life, morose, sad, sleeper, story, tale, true story, work, writing
I recognised the Sleeper as soon as he crossed the tiled store front. He had his thick black leather jacket on, riddled with cracks, the frayed lining exposed. The jacket hugged him tight around his hips, and beneath it he was dressed oddly dapper - rich blue knit, linen slacks and a paisley collar just visible, encircling his weary neck. His silver hair seemed to thin and retreat even more every time I saw him.
Having worked in this cafe for just four weeks, I had discovered that eighty per cent of the customers were seasoned regulars who had grown used to walking in to find their 'usual' cuppa awaiting them on the bar and the loyalty stamp poised to reward them. This meant that I had to learn quick, prove myself and earn my keep. I'm naturally sociable, luckily; I can chat for hours even when I'm given almost nothing to work with and the most sour and sullen of people to engage with. It's one of my redeeming qualities - I'm always a friend.
I just like to imagine that when I hand over an especially foamy mocha or a perfect ristretto espresso, I'm making someone's day just a fraction of a tad more bearable. Maybe I'm making it, period.
This customer, the Sleeper, strikes me as a lost soul in need of a good day. Or a string of good days. He's a local legend; he's out all night sinking ships and spirits in every public house along the old high street, come closing time he's wandering about freely but always constricted by something big and invisible - then by 7:10am he finds his way to our cafe, his safe sleeping spot. He sleeps. He sleeps on our sofas or propped in a chair, slumped on the round tables or reclining in the coveted winged armchairs in the back window. He moves from one spot to another, for hours on end, all day every day. Most days he comes to his senses and clears off by early afternoon, but some days he stays until past 5pm. Other customers, the suited and booted board-meeting mates, the gossiping girls and the young mums, the avid readers or the wifi hijackers, all take turns coming up to the counter and alerting us of his presence at the table next to theirs; 'stinking up the place', 'making everyone uncomfortable', 'taking the mick'... We apologise and explain. He's a regular. We wouldn't, couldn't, turn him away. He's lost and probably lonely. I personally reckon he's fighting a battle, and has been for some time.
Today, he bypasses the manager who is a proud veteran when it comes to dealing with him, and he approaches me. Manager M gives me a look, a raised-eyebrow licked-lips 'you got this?' expression. I nod quickly and easily, blink and you'll miss it.
'Good morning, sir! How are you today?' I can tell I've spoken too loudly, too early. He's searching the wall behind me, above my head, choosing which drink he'll be purchasing today and then leaving unattended on the floor by his seat, as usual. He brings his eyes down to my level. His eyes contract and get locked in a long blink as he adjusts to my brightness and volume.
'Black tea, to have in...please, miss.'
'Regular, or grande, sir? It's the same price for a grahhn-day.'
'Grand.'
I spin around and get to work. I pride myself on my ability to skid and spin around behind the bar, it makes me feel cool and cute. It also makes me seem spry and efficient. It's an art of deceit.
'You're sweet,' I hear him mumble behind me as I drop the teabag in. 'A sweet treat.' I assume he's talking to the little packet of white sugar he's twiddling and tapping between his fingers. I turn and his melted ice-blue eyes are looking through my friendly front. He's seeing something beyond. His inebriated state doesn't do him any favours. Or does it amplify everything and bring clarity?
I retrieve the mug from under the boiling steam tap. I turn and smile. I place it on the glass counter and push it gently toward the Sleeper. He tries so hard to pull his smile up to his eyes. I see a decade of sad winter Sundays pass behind those eyes. He extracts a wad of notes from his jacket pocket. All purple notes. An abundance of twenties. He must have just shy of four hundred there in his paws.
I could always tell he wasn't homeless, as some of my colleagues would sympathetically suggest and our customers would disgustedly insist. He has a back story, and it involves a frisky fortune being caught too early and carried away on the breeze.
The Sleeper apparently disappeared for six months, about a year ago. The town missed him somewhat; he was a sore subject, and the stuff of lore. The pubs all conferred and none had held his presence, no bartender had reluctantly pulled him a pint and tried to make sense of him, for quite some time. They wouldn't admit it, but they worried. They'd say they were afraid they'd lose a substantial amount of their weekly intake without him sitting at their bars each night - barrels would be sitting in the basement untouched, their deliveries would be out of sync, they'd have more goods coming in than going out, the other regulars would feel worse about themselves because if the poor sap who was always around had tidied himself up and packed his bags, why couldn't they? - but really, they feared he was in trouble. They envisioned him banged up or beaten down, locked away or pushed over the edge. He then returned abruptly and continued his usual anarchic yet resigned activities as if he'd never left, but he was 'different'. Something must have happened. He wasn't in this world any more.
'You remind me of a daughter I had some time ago.'
I'm jolted back to the present.
'Excuse me, sir?'
'I had a daughter.'
'Is that so, sir?'
'You could be her.'
Stumped, I say, 'I assure you I'm not. Sorry, sir.'
His face falls even further. He produces a thin wooden stirrer stick from nowhere, and pops it between his teeth. He's shouldering a burden. I daren't ask.
I pick up the grande mug, and press it into his open hand, careful not to upset the sad wedge of wasted money. 'Enjoy your tea, sir.'
He makes a sound, a unique sound born to a growl and a whimper, and he backs away to his favourite sofa. He places the mug on the very edge of the marble table, sits, and slides down into sleep instantly. Sleep is his relief and his insane sanctuary. I look on, and I wish I could help. I wish someone, anyone, could. For now though, he can sleep.
They'll never believe it.
11 December 2014 • advice, boyfriend, first impressions, friends, friendship, future, home, life, memories, past, revelations, surprises, uni
Maybe it's some unhealthy yearning to be the protagonist in a piece of especially supernatural character-driven YA fiction, but I have always harboured the desire to be able to travel back in time and revisit Past Me, remind her of the people she's only just met or show her photos of people she has yet to even come across, and tell her the stories. After all, ninety-nine per cent of the time first impressions count for nothing - yet one per cent of the time, they are everything. I'd love to show Past Me if her instincts were correct; I'd love to see the look on her face when she's told certain things.
Let's start slow.
The guy with the cranberry-coloured hair who you're drunkenly chatting to at the SU, he becomes your best friend, you go on an epic holiday with his family, AND in third year he falls on his feet and starts dating the first girl who spoke to you in your first Drama lecture (the super-cute one with those eyes). The guy you're seeing come the end of Freshers fortnight sure can be a complete fool with the ladies, and you'll hate him for a little while, but he'll grow up pretty damn well sooner or later and you'll get along just fine. The creative genius chick in your poetry seminar will be one of your dearest friends before long, back home she lives a fifteen minute drive away and she'll inspire you constantly and consistently. The lovely lecturer you have a massive creative crush on, someday he'll be messed about by the uni; you and your other course mates will help him get a permanent position secured once and for all. That rather beautiful perfectly ginger American gal in your Drama lectures for one semester will earn her title as an Honourary Brit, and despite being across an ocean most of the time, she'll always be there for you.
Now, some pleasant surprises... The girl you converse with over Twitter about your mutual love for Joshua Radin? Someday you'll be sitting side by side in the most picturesque chapel in Islington, watching your favourite artist onstage bewitching the crowd. Oh, and also you'll meet Joshua himself after all those years lying on your single bed playing his albums on repeat as you contemplate your existence and fret about the boy in your English class. You'll hug him, he'll write down your favourite lyric in Sharpie pen (a pen which you keep) and you'll get it tattooed.
The crazy chick sitting outside your Sociology classroom chatting about hair dyeing with you (after you told her your bright orange hair was a horrible hair henna-related accident, then she reassured you it looks rad); she'll be a constant for some years, always reachable online and always up for a tipple, then suddenly you'll join the team on her exciting new project and she'll be your wicked-perf editor.
The guy in the Single Honours Drama clan with the long blonde hair, the one you met while drunkenly scoffing chips from the food hatch on a night out, will become a good friend and a fantastic drinking buddy. You'll be in plays and performances together a fair bit over the next couple of years, then discuss moving to London with other grads.
That Fresher chick on the Ultimate team who you so desperately want to like you, despite hearing that she definitely doesn't - give it a year, she'll be your best friend. For real. The best of the best.
Yes, some things are upsetting.
The girl you've made friends with during Freshers week, the one you take all those webcam selfies with, yeah that friendship won't last. She'll shag a guy, stake her claim to him, then he'll stupidly (and completely independently) take a shine to you, and she'll make it all your fault. Don't worry, your lecturer will defend you and shut her up when she screams at you in the middle of a Drama seminar.
Your second year house mates will be challenging. The 'lads' will relentlessly take the piss because they're both strapped in with long-term relationships and you're bringing guys (as in, TWO different guys over the course of one year, you slut) back to your box room for nightcaps. The other girl will turn up her nose at most of your guilty pleasures and best intentions, but when it comes down to it, she's a decent friend. You two have plenty of nice moments drinking tea and watching Gilmore Girls.
Don't push it too much with your Ultimate team mates. If they like you, if they're wanting to be friends, they'll reach out. Stop smothering them and scaring them off with your mad chatter, just because you're scared they won't like you right away.
Your college besties, they hurt you like no stupid guy ever could.
One last thing. Those new third year house mates of yours. You cook with them and drink with them; you'll be discussing the politics of sexuality one minute and the best essay-writing techniques the next; they support you better than anyone, most of the time. By Christmas, you'll never want to be in that house. The damage will be irreparable. You'll be crashing at friends' or your other half's (we'll get to that in a minute) or even setting up camp in the library until the small hours even though you only have a couple hundred words to write... You hate being at home. But you find home elsewhere, don't worry.
Some revelations are uplifting.
Who is that boy in two classes with you at college? He's a laugh, apparently. He entertains in Drama and has his head down in French. Admit it, those yellow-blonde inconsistent highlights through his brown hair are somewhat endearing. He's your soulmate - and he'll prove to be an invaluable friend to you for years to come. Don't try to live without him, you can't.
Your two playgroup besties who both live with their families across the road from you will be lifelong friends; one day suddenly you'll all be twenty-one and having a cup of tea together still loving each other's company and totally at ease together.
And that guy your course mate and colleague introduces you to, with the colourful tattoos down one arm and black work down the other - the boy you shyly say hi to, and he's shy right back - he'll make you the happiest you've ever been. One night you'll come home from work and he'll be waiting with a cup of green tea, plus biscuits and a big smile. He genuinely cares about you, and you can barely believe it. You did good there.
I'd also want to tell my past self about the experiences she'll have in the near future - but I wouldn't want to terrify her beyond belief. I think she'd get a lot of excitement out of seeing photos of future friends/enemies/something-mores. She may somewhat perversely love the fact that someday she'll get her heart smashed to pieces which are then scattered around for all to see, that's just an occupational hazard of a hopeless romantic, and at least it means that she has a mad mess of thrilling feelings and epic drama headed her way... She could probably even deal with the fact that she has a life-changing medical revelation come the end of her degree. I wouldn't tell her that she gets an Upper Second Class, or that she gets Firsts in certain essays, or that her old school invite her back to make speeches and she receives insane endless applause and positive feedback after she speaks - she couldn't handle that pressure. It's better as a surprise. I wouldn't tell her that she moves back to the family home after uni - because even though it's due to the medical drama, and even though it's for practical rent-free saving-up purposes, and even though it's nice and comforting for a while... She might be disheartened, and think of it as a failure. I may let her know that someday she'll suffer from depression, because maybe then she'll realise what it is earlier, maybe then she'll get something done about it earlier, maybe she'll read up about it and be properly prepared... That is, if it's something you can really prepare yourself for.
I'd definitely tell her she becomes a barista; she gets four tattoos and ten piercings with intentions to get more; she develops a love-hate relationship with the bottle; she figures out how to make time for writing and reading recreationally; a fella finally gives her hers; she finds a real love for and has fun playing an actual sport (Ultimate); she eventually finds her way around the London Underground; she meets a writing hero of hers, John Green, and he wishes her luck in life; she finds a perfect way to express herself through blogging.
She does alright. And the people in her life, the ones she never thought she'd befriend and the friends she never thought she'd lose, they get her there.
The guy with the cranberry-coloured hair who you're drunkenly chatting to at the SU, he becomes your best friend, you go on an epic holiday with his family, AND in third year he falls on his feet and starts dating the first girl who spoke to you in your first Drama lecture (the super-cute one with those eyes). The guy you're seeing come the end of Freshers fortnight sure can be a complete fool with the ladies, and you'll hate him for a little while, but he'll grow up pretty damn well sooner or later and you'll get along just fine. The creative genius chick in your poetry seminar will be one of your dearest friends before long, back home she lives a fifteen minute drive away and she'll inspire you constantly and consistently. The lovely lecturer you have a massive creative crush on, someday he'll be messed about by the uni; you and your other course mates will help him get a permanent position secured once and for all. That rather beautiful perfectly ginger American gal in your Drama lectures for one semester will earn her title as an Honourary Brit, and despite being across an ocean most of the time, she'll always be there for you.
Now, some pleasant surprises... The girl you converse with over Twitter about your mutual love for Joshua Radin? Someday you'll be sitting side by side in the most picturesque chapel in Islington, watching your favourite artist onstage bewitching the crowd. Oh, and also you'll meet Joshua himself after all those years lying on your single bed playing his albums on repeat as you contemplate your existence and fret about the boy in your English class. You'll hug him, he'll write down your favourite lyric in Sharpie pen (a pen which you keep) and you'll get it tattooed.
The crazy chick sitting outside your Sociology classroom chatting about hair dyeing with you (after you told her your bright orange hair was a horrible hair henna-related accident, then she reassured you it looks rad); she'll be a constant for some years, always reachable online and always up for a tipple, then suddenly you'll join the team on her exciting new project and she'll be your wicked-perf editor.
The guy in the Single Honours Drama clan with the long blonde hair, the one you met while drunkenly scoffing chips from the food hatch on a night out, will become a good friend and a fantastic drinking buddy. You'll be in plays and performances together a fair bit over the next couple of years, then discuss moving to London with other grads.
That Fresher chick on the Ultimate team who you so desperately want to like you, despite hearing that she definitely doesn't - give it a year, she'll be your best friend. For real. The best of the best.
Yes, some things are upsetting.
The girl you've made friends with during Freshers week, the one you take all those webcam selfies with, yeah that friendship won't last. She'll shag a guy, stake her claim to him, then he'll stupidly (and completely independently) take a shine to you, and she'll make it all your fault. Don't worry, your lecturer will defend you and shut her up when she screams at you in the middle of a Drama seminar.
Your second year house mates will be challenging. The 'lads' will relentlessly take the piss because they're both strapped in with long-term relationships and you're bringing guys (as in, TWO different guys over the course of one year, you slut) back to your box room for nightcaps. The other girl will turn up her nose at most of your guilty pleasures and best intentions, but when it comes down to it, she's a decent friend. You two have plenty of nice moments drinking tea and watching Gilmore Girls.
Don't push it too much with your Ultimate team mates. If they like you, if they're wanting to be friends, they'll reach out. Stop smothering them and scaring them off with your mad chatter, just because you're scared they won't like you right away.
Your college besties, they hurt you like no stupid guy ever could.
One last thing. Those new third year house mates of yours. You cook with them and drink with them; you'll be discussing the politics of sexuality one minute and the best essay-writing techniques the next; they support you better than anyone, most of the time. By Christmas, you'll never want to be in that house. The damage will be irreparable. You'll be crashing at friends' or your other half's (we'll get to that in a minute) or even setting up camp in the library until the small hours even though you only have a couple hundred words to write... You hate being at home. But you find home elsewhere, don't worry.
Some revelations are uplifting.
Who is that boy in two classes with you at college? He's a laugh, apparently. He entertains in Drama and has his head down in French. Admit it, those yellow-blonde inconsistent highlights through his brown hair are somewhat endearing. He's your soulmate - and he'll prove to be an invaluable friend to you for years to come. Don't try to live without him, you can't.
Your two playgroup besties who both live with their families across the road from you will be lifelong friends; one day suddenly you'll all be twenty-one and having a cup of tea together still loving each other's company and totally at ease together.
And that guy your course mate and colleague introduces you to, with the colourful tattoos down one arm and black work down the other - the boy you shyly say hi to, and he's shy right back - he'll make you the happiest you've ever been. One night you'll come home from work and he'll be waiting with a cup of green tea, plus biscuits and a big smile. He genuinely cares about you, and you can barely believe it. You did good there.
I'd also want to tell my past self about the experiences she'll have in the near future - but I wouldn't want to terrify her beyond belief. I think she'd get a lot of excitement out of seeing photos of future friends/enemies/something-mores. She may somewhat perversely love the fact that someday she'll get her heart smashed to pieces which are then scattered around for all to see, that's just an occupational hazard of a hopeless romantic, and at least it means that she has a mad mess of thrilling feelings and epic drama headed her way... She could probably even deal with the fact that she has a life-changing medical revelation come the end of her degree. I wouldn't tell her that she gets an Upper Second Class, or that she gets Firsts in certain essays, or that her old school invite her back to make speeches and she receives insane endless applause and positive feedback after she speaks - she couldn't handle that pressure. It's better as a surprise. I wouldn't tell her that she moves back to the family home after uni - because even though it's due to the medical drama, and even though it's for practical rent-free saving-up purposes, and even though it's nice and comforting for a while... She might be disheartened, and think of it as a failure. I may let her know that someday she'll suffer from depression, because maybe then she'll realise what it is earlier, maybe then she'll get something done about it earlier, maybe she'll read up about it and be properly prepared... That is, if it's something you can really prepare yourself for.
I'd definitely tell her she becomes a barista; she gets four tattoos and ten piercings with intentions to get more; she develops a love-hate relationship with the bottle; she figures out how to make time for writing and reading recreationally; a fella finally gives her hers; she finds a real love for and has fun playing an actual sport (Ultimate); she eventually finds her way around the London Underground; she meets a writing hero of hers, John Green, and he wishes her luck in life; she finds a perfect way to express herself through blogging.
She does alright. And the people in her life, the ones she never thought she'd befriend and the friends she never thought she'd lose, they get her there.
What makes a good job?
9 December 2014 • barista, cafe, coffee, coffee shop, days, fun, future, job, life, love, money, plans, problems, time, tips, work
In
the months since I've been back in my home town since
graduating/being dragged kicking and screaming from uni, I've had
three jobs. I remember back in my first year of uni when I refused to
find one as I was determined to make the most of my time as a
Fresher, and so what if that meant I was surviving solely on the
little allowance my parents sent me each week – and then as the
weeks went on, my overdraft...?
Then
when second year came around and the reality of the necessity of
money had properly sunk in, I quickly snapped up two jobs in
September; one was every weekend, one most week nights. Friday night
finishing work at 3/4am then starting work at 9am on Saturday morning
was always grim, also I missed my weekends after a while, so I stuck
with the week night front of house gig for a few more months. I found
my beloved cinema job towards the end of second year, and was there
for over a year. Summer of third year, I took on another job at a
beaut shop in town, and I'm still upset that I had to leave to come
home. Luckily I have a few shifts at one of their sister stores in
Brighton this month to look forward to...
Anyway,
my work experience at uni – and before it, at the shitty racist
Italian restaurant for £3.20 an hour and then at my good friend's
beauty cutie boutique – taught me many things. My work experiences
after uni are teaching me a million things a day, too.
Contracts
are important. I've been
screwed over by many pieces of paper in the past. It's fortunate that
my dad is a little more than literate when it comes to important
paperwork. He likes looking over things for me. I've recently been
royally effed by a supposed contractual agreement to forfeit nearly
three days' worth of wages from a job because I left before I'd
worked six months in that (godforsaken hell hole of a) place – I've
missed out on approximately £160 purely because I couldn't bear to
be there longer than six weeks. I know £160 may just be a small
price to pay in the grand scheme of things, but it's still money I
could be putting towards a future. A future plan that I do not have.
This is a lesson learned.
You
should know what you're doing. Starting
a new job often feels like being thrown in the deep end of that
metaphorical pool – I personally hate the first couple of weeks on
some level, because even though it's exciting as can be and a new
challenge etc., I'm already wanting to be perfect at every single
thing I have to do.
Now
this should go without saying, but... It helps to be properly
trained. At my previous job I was never properly trained, never
talked through rules and policies, never fully informed. I never
walked onto the floor with much confidence and in my fifth week I was
still struggling to make the most commonplace of orders.
At
my new place of work, I got trained in my first two shifts by a
Maestro, an employee who is specially trained and assessed to teach newbies. I made every drink in the book, twice, and was congratulated on each one. By the end of the first two days, I was serving every drink in the book with at least 72% confidence.
A
manager makes it. Example A: The coffee shop chain I joined as my
first job post-grad was rather horrific work, and a big contributing
bummer would have been my poor timing – the manager of this
franchise, the one who interviewed me and processed my details, left
as I arrived. She gave one day's notice, and that day was my first
day, and she was covering in another branch that day. Bad day. So for
the entirety of my time there I was not managed at all. We were a
group of baristas (notice how I say 'group' and not 'team') all on
the same level, with nobody being paid to be in charge. Eventually an
assistant manager from another store was brought in and due to start
after his annual leave was over – but I'd left by then.
Our
area manager was a character most feared. The news that she was due
to appear one day to do staff reviews or just check up on us meant
we'd be spending the day cleaning, tidying and panicking more than
serving customers. Her presence was like an icy chill that swept
through the cafe and down the high street – and it didn't help that
her other half was an assistant behind the bar so she had access to
gossip and supposed faults in her employees.
Example
B: I've been in my new position, at another coffee shop chain that
I've always loved, for three weeks now and it's already better by a
few million miles. I have the same job title, but it could not be
more different.
When I applied, the manager of the branch gave a thorough interview and explained everything there was to know about the job; the harder tasks, the cheeky benefits, and where it could lead. Sometimes you get a good feeling about someone when you meet them, a good energy draws you in and fills you with confidence instantly. You can tell when someone is a good manager, and when they are frank and relaxed on the surface but they really properly care. I met the area manager at this job just a week after joining – Northern, hilarious, casual yet caring. I helped her take a dozen pizzas out of an oven and load tables with crates of beer for the staff social, and we bonded instantly (at least I'm absolutely positive we did).
When I applied, the manager of the branch gave a thorough interview and explained everything there was to know about the job; the harder tasks, the cheeky benefits, and where it could lead. Sometimes you get a good feeling about someone when you meet them, a good energy draws you in and fills you with confidence instantly. You can tell when someone is a good manager, and when they are frank and relaxed on the surface but they really properly care. I met the area manager at this job just a week after joining – Northern, hilarious, casual yet caring. I helped her take a dozen pizzas out of an oven and load tables with crates of beer for the staff social, and we bonded instantly (at least I'm absolutely positive we did).
My
managers at the cinema were a bunch of delights. Each of them
beautifully unique, and hilarious (whether unashamedly deliberately
or completely unintentionally). One manager would come in every once
in a while armed with an armful of chocolate treats for us bar
minions. Another let me play my classic retro rock playlist over the
speakers. My favourite manager was the one I'd have endless
conversations with that consisted of ninety percent Community quotes,
ten percent depressed yet hysterical ponderings about life and love.
My manager at the shop last summer was chilled and friendly as can
be, we made instant coffee and had heart-to-hearts between serving
customers.
So
my current manager insists I come to staff socials, makes shameless
puns, explains everything to me and ensures I'm happy at all times.
At my shift a couple of days ago he took me aside and basically told
me repeatedly how well I was doing and how chuffed he is. I needed
that. Also, hugs from managers are not out of the question. If
anything, they are a goal to be achieved and a relationship level
most coveted.
Smile,
damnit. A good little
expression I came across recently (in italics against a cloudy
backdrop, very much a 'share me on Facebook, tag friends'
monstrosity) was 'Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle
you know nothing about.' This cheesy little string of words pretty
much describes my constant mentality when it comes to customer
service. For some customers that cuppa you make them, the extra stamp
on their loyalty card you give them or the free box of popcorn you
shoot their way will be the highlight of their day. They could be
coming to or from a terrible place and a tragic situation. I wrote a
blog post a year or so ago about Mrs Clark, and her casually telling
me over the bar at the cinema that her husband was dying of cancer.
She was happy as anything that night, smartly dressed and very...
Together. Excited to see a film, to spend time with friends and maybe
to get a break from some sad realities. I still think about her. I
hope my kind words made a difference to her day.
Then
again, it's not just about being considerate all the time –
sometimes you just have to take down the worst ones with some good
humour. 'Kill them with kindness', my parents would say. If you can
sense after just the brief over-the-counter chat that they're gunning
for a spat, you flip it on its head and really heap on the sweet
talk. Knock the wind out of their sails. Offer them every sweet
cheeky extra you possibly can; ask how their day is going; compliment
their outfit or accessories, preferably something specific – I
usually go for jewellery, it's a fail-safe option, people love
chattering away about their personal knick-knack keepsakes. Maybe
they'll walk out of the shop feeling acutely embarrassed of their
behaviour and demeanour thus far that day – or suddenly their
outlook becomes inexplicably positive and they're wondering what the
matter ever was... Who knows? It never hurts to be gracious and
friendly.
Take
note of feelings. If you're
counting down the minutes until you can run out the door at the end
of your shift, something must be wrong. Fair enough if you've been
battling a beastly hangover all day long, or you're in a hurry to
head home and watch Strictly, or if those customers didn't appreciate
your charming chatter as you packed their bags – but if it's every
day, if the countdown starts at 9:01am, you could do with a change.
The best shifts are the ones when your manager turns to you and says
'Why are you still here? You finished twenty minutes ago, silly!'
If
you have two days off in a row, but still you're filled with dread
every minute because you will be back at work in two days' time...
That's not good, either.
Think
ahead. Will this job help you
in the future? Is it a stepping stone, a savings plan, a means to an
end...? Is it your perfect occupation that you accidentally but
happily stumbled into? I've realised recently that it's so good to
keep these things in mind; my current job is by no means a potential
career, however it's something I enjoy and arguably a very valuable
skill. It's a profession I'm intrigued by and now I can tick it off
my job bucket list. I'm learning things, sharpening skills and doing
something I'll always love – making people happy.
Okay
yes, I have yet to take on a job that is on or at least adjacent to
the path I want to follow for the rest of my life, but what does that
matter? I'm young, and I forget that more than eighty percent of the
time. These are the years when you have experiences, and maybe lay a
little groundwork for the future, but there's no pressure. You don't
have to know where you are, you just need to have even the roughest
tiniest inkling of an idea of where you want to be. Then at some
point you work out how to get there.
The issue of over-sharing.
1 December 2014 • awkward, gracie actually has opinions, over-sharing, oversharing, sharing, tmi, too much information
I feel the need to inform you of a few things about me. For instance, I could talk for hours about every contestant on Strictly. I have an unhealthy attachment to my cat. When I say ‘the other day’, I could be referring to any time between the day before yesterday and nineteen years ago when my memories properly begin. Another thing you should probably know upfront before you read on, is that I over-share.
Although, what even is that: over-sharing? It’s a term I’ve only encountered in the past couple of years…my understanding is it simply means ‘going too far’ or ‘revealing a bit much’… ‘TMI, too much info, honey.”
The ever-reliable Urban Dictionary claims that over-sharing is:
‘Providing more personal information than is absolutely necessary. Typically done when two or more people are conversing and details of one’s sexual life creep into the discussion – or overly gross and disgusting details are included.’
A friend of mine says: ‘in social media terms, [oversharing is] worrying about whether someone is okay because they haven’t uploaded anything for at least 12 hours’…
My parents would most likely say ‘anything you have to say about boys’. Fair play to them.
‘Providing more personal information than is absolutely necessary. Typically done when two or more people are conversing and details of one’s sexual life creep into the discussion – or overly gross and disgusting details are included.’
A friend of mine says: ‘in social media terms, [oversharing is] worrying about whether someone is okay because they haven’t uploaded anything for at least 12 hours’…
My parents would most likely say ‘anything you have to say about boys’. Fair play to them.
Now I know for a fact that I over-share when I’m drunk (‘See that guy onstage, on guitar at the back? Yeah, he’s pretty blessed with equipment if you know what I mean, but a little clueless as to how to use it…’; ‘I haven’t been this wasted since that time when I pulled off my top and puked all over my friend’s shoes!’). I’ve had some of the best conversations that I hardly remember in the toilets at Spoons with my best girl friends – I’ve even made new friends with the girls in the next cubicle who have overheard our over-sharing and can relate to our woes about unruly body hair and wild desires for (but lack of funds for) extravagant underwear sets…
But I’m only realising recently that I’m almost as bad – maybe not as blunt or graphic, thankfully, but still bad – when sober. I’ve spoken with friends over coffee about my habit of returning texts while on the toilet; I once spent ten minutes answering questions about a urinary catheter I had put in during an operation; I bragged like mad when I discovered I was actually three cup sizes larger than I’d previously thought when three beautiful ladies got me topless and measured me in Boux Avenue. The other day, an old friend and I had an in-depth discussion about the advantages of using lube, in broad daylight, in a clothes shop.
But I’m only realising recently that I’m almost as bad – maybe not as blunt or graphic, thankfully, but still bad – when sober. I’ve spoken with friends over coffee about my habit of returning texts while on the toilet; I once spent ten minutes answering questions about a urinary catheter I had put in during an operation; I bragged like mad when I discovered I was actually three cup sizes larger than I’d previously thought when three beautiful ladies got me topless and measured me in Boux Avenue. The other day, an old friend and I had an in-depth discussion about the advantages of using lube, in broad daylight, in a clothes shop.
When it comes to the internet, it’s all too easy to over-share; bloggers do it, vloggers do it, even the frank forum freaks do it…it’s a slippery slope. I’m a major culprit when it comes to this. I’m even doing it now.
If you’re ever poised with a finger over the mouse, ready to click on ‘post’ or ‘update’ or ‘SHARE’… Think twice. Follow my good friend’s advice: ‘anything you wouldn’t share with distant friends/acquaintances, in person, is probably too much information to share online ‘.
If you’re ever poised with a finger over the mouse, ready to click on ‘post’ or ‘update’ or ‘SHARE’… Think twice. Follow my good friend’s advice: ‘anything you wouldn’t share with distant friends/acquaintances, in person, is probably too much information to share online ‘.
I think there are some unspoken ground rules when it comes to sharing anecdotes and info. For instance, you can tell your mum when you go to the doctors’ for a contraceptive pill prescription, but you can’t run straight out of your bedroom in nothing but your boyfriend’s shirt and inform her that you’ve made use of it for the first time. You can giggle away when a friend goes into a little too much detail about an ex to the entire room at a party, but you must never repeat it on a separate later occasion without permission. And when you and your friends sense that enough has been shared, that you’ve exhausted the topic, you brush it off and move swiftly on to something much more mundane.
There are certain friends to whom you tell everything – you entrust your deepest darkest secrets unto them. Some friends know what personal things you’re thinking or what nightmare private moments you’re recalling just by you giving them a certain look. And that’s fine. I personally feel I’d be at a complete dead loss without my nearest and dearest – who would I talk to about my most awkward fumbling incidents in the bedroom and preferred feminine hygiene products? Who would give me advice on how to move on from my ill-advised one night stands? And who would swear on their siblings’ lives not to repeat any information I send their way when I’m in an inebriated state…?
Then there are certain friends you’d never share anything rated above a PG with. Friends who have lived next door to you your whole life, who you grew up with, who you’re crazy-close with and yet for some reason you’ve never swapped dirty details with. One of my old school friends asked me what my ‘magic number’ was a few Christmases ago (when it was quite a bit lower, oops) and I blushed instantly and refused to tell her. Why? I suppose I’m a selective over-sharer.
Then there are certain friends you’d never share anything rated above a PG with. Friends who have lived next door to you your whole life, who you grew up with, who you’re crazy-close with and yet for some reason you’ve never swapped dirty details with. One of my old school friends asked me what my ‘magic number’ was a few Christmases ago (when it was quite a bit lower, oops) and I blushed instantly and refused to tell her. Why? I suppose I’m a selective over-sharer.
Then again, over-sharing is massively therapeutic. Sometimes it helps to hear someone else feels the same way, has the same problems, fights the same battles, fancies the same Z-list celebrities. A little over-sharing, whether over a cup of coffee or a pitcher of Woo Woo, is sometimes the best thing to do. Just maybe don’t announce anything over international airwaves, or in an online auditorium…just a little advice, right there.
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