Take today, for instance. Today I woke up at a reasonable hour, but stayed in bed until eleven because there wasn’t really any great reason to get up (it’s cold outside, there’s no kind of atmosphere etc…). Quick shower, some breakfast, and a decision that I may as well amuse myself in town, since I appeared to have missed Homes Under The Hammer and This Morning are still on their Christmas break.

So I jump in my car and bimble off into town. We have the (dis)pleasure of hosting a Woolworths, which was closing down today. In the hope of getting a bargain I ventured inside, only to find it closely resembled a jumble sale. Then I remembered that even at 80% off they’re still selling the same crap that I didn’t want to buy last week either.

Death of an institution

When I was a kid, this was the shop that I always wanted to go in, and because of that it holds a special place in my heart. Both my brothers at one point worked there, and one member of staff in particular (I won’t mention her name but if you live here you know what it is) always remembers me. Whether I want her to or not is another issue, but that’s for another day. But now, I wouldn’t go in there through choice for a number of reasons – the main one being (brace yourself)…

The staff are shit.

The ones who work Saturdays are all about twelve and a half and seem to have recently undergone frontal lobotomies. With a very small number of exceptions, none of them are capable of saying ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, and the avoidance of eye contact is more akin to being on an underground platform on a Friday night next to a shifty looking bloke carrying a rucksack.

The ones who dont work Saturdays (with the exception of the lady already mentioned) are all miserable buggers who wouldn’t know good customer service if it slapped them firmly in the face with a haddock so fresh it’s still dripping. I do not expect to queue for half an hour while three of you stand behind the counter arguing about whose turn it is to restock the pick and mix.

This may sound a harsh way to describe a load of people who are about to be made redundant, but it’s the truth. Good luck in the job hunt.

Hmm… Anyway… What was the point of this post? Aaah yes. The more observant iPhone users among you will notice that I’ve added an iPhone friendly thingy to make posts easier to read. If you view the full version you now also get my latest Tweet added to the front page. If you don’t know what Twitter is, you should. Google it.

Happy New Year!

Let me back track…

In 2004 I had the pleasure of spending an extended time in Australia (have I mentioned that yet?!) during which time, because I was occasionally working, I had an Australian bank account (with ANZ), which came with a switch-like debit card facility. Very quickly I discovered that when making purchases I would be asked for my PIN, rather than asked to sign anything. This was initially confusing but I got over it. I managed not to get obsessive about who could see my PIN when I was typing it and also managed not to get my account hacked.

Fast forward a year or so, I’m back in the UK and my bank has just introduced chip and pin. This is on a bank account I’ve had since I was 12. That’s a long time. I’ve had the same PIN since then as well, and my bank has always (by way of annoying inserts in my bank statements) preached that this information is sacred. Previously, I’ve only shared this information between me and the hole in the wall I’m huddling against. Suddenly, this is a problem.

Now, I have slightly obsessive tendencies anyway. I don’t mind admitting that. I shred EVERYTHING that has my card number on it, even if several digits are blanked. I no longer use my debit card in one particular bookshop and stationery chain beause they once charged five payments of £7.95 to my card on the same day for no good reason. I got the money back, but it’s the principle. I still shop there, so on reflection I’m only inconveniencing myself with this not very dramatic stance, but that’s what principles are all about. So you get the picture.

Suddeny, I need to find ways of protecting my PIN from prying eyes without putting my hand over it like a seven year old who doesn’t want anyone to copy their spelling test (and yes, I did that too). That would clearly be very uncool and indicate to the person processing the transaction that I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw them (they wouldn’t know of course that my year 7 discus record still stands, so potentially that could be quite a long way). It has long been my opinion that supermarket staff etc should avert their eyes elsewhere while the special bit is being done, and for the most part, people do that. But you can have too much of a good thing.

Mr Morrisons (that’s quite clearly not his name but it’ll do) takes this concept to extremes. I place my goods on the belt, he scans and I pack. He presses buttons and announces the total. Warily, I remove the card from my pocket, and hand it to him. He takes it (not forgetting his manners) and slots it into the machine, pressing one further button on the till. Then, while announcing ‘if you’d just like to enter your pin’ he rotates his whole body through a full 180 degrees, as if to demonstrate the extent to which he is not trying to see my PIN. Trying not to wet myself laughing at his theatrical tendencies, I enter it, press enter, cough slightly and say ‘OK’. Before he completes his pirouette and turns to face me.

What is that all about?! Obviously it’s preferable to him standing there gawping at me, but could he not just look out of the window? Or back into the store? After a few hours on the till he must be quite nauseous.

It’s no wonder you never see him on the cigarette counter any more, he’d never stand still…

They served frozen roast potatoes.

This is a phenomenon I just don’t understand. If I go to a florist, it’s for fresh flowers. I don’t go to florists I buy flowers in Sainsbury’s, but that’s not the point. If I go out for a curry, I don’t expect it to come sealed in a polystyrene container ready for me to pierce the lid and microwave. So why do restaurants think it’s ever acceptable to serve potatoes that last saw earth in 1997 and have been held in a pseudo-cryogenic state of suspension ever since?

They’re not crispy on the outside. They’re not soft in the middle. They go from unnaturally yellow to black in far too small a space of time. To be blunt, they’re just not good enough.

Pubs and restaurants of Britain, sort it out.

Aunt Bessie should be shot