KitNotes

… it ended up as 12.

Today was, quite frankly, a horrible day for me. I had to be in at 8 this morning (already, I know you're thinking "ugh, Kit, that's horrible." I know. I appreciate the sympathy) so, naturally, I thought, "Hmm. Now, if I have to be in an hour before I usually am, that means I have to wake up an hour before I usually do, and therefore logic would dicate that I should also set off an hour before I usually do." I mean, come on people, this is logic. You can't go wrong with logic, surely?

So, it's 6am. A very bedraggled, sleepy, and irratable version of me (same as usual, then, fnar fnar) is walking up the road to the Post Office. This Post Office opens at 6am - huzzah!, you may think, but beware reader - this is just a trap of false security I was lulled into! For, you see, I had to acquire a bus pass. But the Post Office people (who haven't liked me ever since I stopped using a Post Office Card Account to get my benefits paid into and got a proper bank account and being free from the mercy of Post Office opening times) refused to sell me one, on account of it not being half six. 

"It's the law," he said, firmly. "After half six, you can."

Obviously, this is no good. And also utter bollocks, because every other damn person from whom I have had the task of purchasing bus passes or travelcards from have let me buy them from 6am onwards (not to mention the fact that the Tube opens up at well before 6am, and you can buy tickets there, natch). Instead of following my instinct of asking whether this was a Parliamentary law, the law of Transport for London, or his own little spiteful law, I played the Tiny Tim card.

"Oh, please, oh, come on guv, please, I've got to get to work!"

"No."

Time for a different tact.

"Well, can I get some change  then, please?"

"No."

"Not even if I buy something?"

"No, because I don't have the change"

"Gnh."

Defeated, I walk out of the one place where they will pritty much have change. All the time. I mean, it's a Post Office. If they don't have change, how do all of the pensioners get their pensions? (If you think I'm exagerating on this, just wait in line behind three pensioners getting their pension out while you just need a tenner so you can buy some damn food. See for yourself.) And, because it's 6am, there is no other place open. So, armed with a twenty, I try to use it on the bus. I really should have seen this one coming, really.

"You must be joking, mate!"

"Look, I just went to that Post Office, up there. See it? [points] Right over there. He wouldn't sell me a bus pass.  He wouldn't even give me any change or buy anything."

"Well, I can't take it."

Out comes the stressed Tiny Tim card. The stress was totally genuine. 
"Oh, please, oh, come on guv, please, I've got to get to work!"

Begrudingly, the complete and utter jobsworth held onto my twenty, and when we passed an open shop, stopped the bus, and made me get the change. I felt like a naughty schoolboy. 

Soon after I arrived in Hownslow, I couldn't find a single retailer that was open. Oh, the time by the way, is 6.30am - I am way too early. For, you see, my infallable logic was knocked over by the simple fact that at 6am, there is no traffic, so the journey takes a shill 25 mins. Honestly, it's a wonder I don't smack myself in the fact whenever I peel a banana, really.
Still, a fruitless search of Hounslow failed to produce a single ticket seller that was open. Not one. In Hownslow. Which is not just a row of three shops - it's a fairly big shopping centre place type effort, if you've never been to Hownslow (and I wouldn't say there is anything to recommend of the place, either).  

So I have to pay to get on the bus to Osterley. I buy my ticket, and take a seat. I must have dropped it, but then again, when have you ever seen a ticket inspector on the bus?

Err… me. This morning.

Several pleas and driver's interventions later, I end up with a £20 fine. I mean, when I woke up, I just knew this was going to be a shit day. Just knew it. The glass isn't even half empty.

So, I get to work, and it's seven bastarding A bastarding M. I'm an hour early. Literally. I checked the time that I swiped in at, and it was 7.04am, and I have only the Internet orders guy for company.  The lines open at 8am. It's pandemonium.

You may feel, dear reader, than you fully understand the capability of otherwise normal-looking people to be utter fuckwits, but unless you've ever worked in a call centre, you don't. You, it seems, are both God and the dogsbody, just without the respect of either. Oh, and throw into the mix a sale catalouge.

Thankfully, a sympathetic line manager let me go on break early (a paltry 15 minuites) before I committed the Great Massacre of Osterley. One cigerette later, I come back, and until 6pm, the day goes like any other. As I was looking forward to knocking off (not one out) for the day, the call centre manager asks if people can stay on for an extra hour's overtime. 

You may all now be thinking "Oh, Kit, surely this must be end!" but through my own stupidity, I was an hour early. Do you really think that, given my crap day, that my stupidity would like the side down?

My arm thrust up.

To be honest, the last hour flew anyway. Until 7pm, when about three calls came through. And never in my life has my own name sent such a shiver down my spine.

"Kiiiiiit…. can you stay on and take two more calls?"

Gnhhhhhhh…

By the time I swiped out, it was 7.22 pm. Which meant I missed the bus to Hownslow. 

I need a hug.