Overheard at work

One loud American to another: "This is my favourite place to shop in than [somewhere else] is!"

Forget the sentiment, what sort of English is that?

Ethics, part two

When I was first interviewed for my current job, I was rather amused by the company's principal aim, "to remain the UK's number 1 entertainment retailer", this being in stark contrast to my then employers' desire "to become the UK's number 1 entertainment retailer". As far as I could tell, my current employer doesn't really need to worry about any high street competition snapping at its heels, and my opinion has remained largely unchanged, until a slight hiccough this afternoon.

There's a weekly letter from one of the senior managers within the company published on the intranet, which I read when I've nothing better to do. This week's contains the following passage:

Let's really spoil the [competition's] Sale launch day on Tuesday. They have day one offers which will run out within 10 minutes of them opening at 8pm. Are you ready to capitalise on these disappointed customers, are you open at 8am? are you leafleting near their store?

Regardless of any copying tactics, customers know where the best "Sale" offers are delivered and where to get the best Customer Service and it's certainly not in [the competition] !

I realise it's the way of the Western world, but is such a callous attitude really warranted? There is admittedly a huge difference between the day-to-day working of the two companies (my current employer gives their staff much more responsibility with regards to what stock we have in at any given time, a degree of trust which is reflected in the wage), which is no reason to drive the competition to the ground. Taken to the extreme, it would not be good for us to have a monopoly within entertainment retail (dreadful term); besides, it's good for keeping both companies on their toes.

And I, for one, am not conscious of any difference in the customer service I offer since changing jobs.

Ethics in the workplace

Last weekend we had an in-house competition to guess how much money we'd make over the weekend (being the first of the July sale), with the person guessing to the closest pound getting a £20 voucher for their troubles. As it turned out, the winner was the assistant manager, who declined the prize, reasonably enough.

Fast forward to this morning's staff meeting, at which the voucher was to be awarded, the only problem being that the winner hadn't showed up (he was out last night with a close friend and former colleague who's returning to the States tomorrow), which the manager said - in a strangely light tone - was reason enough for him to forfeit his right to the prize as well. As the boss left to check whose guess was next closest, I sat wondering if anyone besides me disagreed: given the circumstances, I thought it perfectly understandable that the winner should be feeling under the weather and, in the manager's place, wouldn't have held it against him.

It turned out my guess was the next closest. I almost made a scene (an attempt which was interrupted by a round of applause), then thought better of it, doubting there was much to be gained by making a fuss. Managers can be strange people ...

The rightful winner did eventually show up (albeit a tad late) so I told him he could have the voucher. As I explained, I'd already got everything I wanted in the sale and didn't regard the prize as mine anyway, particularly in the light of the manager's tenuous reasoning.

On a slightly lighter note, I was very amused this morning when the decision to open fifteen minutes before the competition down the road (whose summer sale started today) turned out to be a waste of time. Despite being open an hour and a quarter earlier than usual, we didn't make a penny from it.

Yet more odd customers

One of my regulars showed up today just as I was about to leave, a strangely masculine woman who looks disturbingly the way I'd imagine my mother would if she had a botched sex change operation. I'm far from convinced this woman was born that way ...

Unlike the pair we knew as "the trannie and the hobbit", who were definitely male and female respectively but nonetheless utterly bizarre. We're talking about an unconvincing transvestite (who is the spitting image of Val Denton from The league of gentlemen) who manages to make a more attractive woman than his partner, despite clearly not wearing the trousers in any sense. It's disturbing stuff.

Mr Murray, who is positively normal by comparison, told me today, for the umpteenth time, that he really likes Tchaikovsky. I responded by repeating myself in my turn (recommending he listens to the Manfred symphony) and he didn't bat an eyelid. Bless.

A wonderful abuse of English as she is spoke

A contestant on The weakest link has just described Anne Robinson as "the most viciousest woman". It's pretty impressive: even without a drink inside me, I can't say 'viciousest'.

Blood pressure update

I've been on medication for a week now and this morning doubled the dose (as per the doctor's instructions, given that I've not felt any side-effects). Just back from having my blood pressure taken again: it's on its way down but still needs to be monitored closely, what with the effects of the medication taking time to register.

My blood test results were back from last week and apparently my cholesterol is incredibly low. Time for some more muffins, I think!

Hurrah for Scottish law!

Unmarried couples in Scotland are set to be given the same rights as their married counterparts with regards to child adoption. There is to be a strong emphasis on enduring commitment and, as ever, the welfare of the child.

I got into something of a heated discussion about British adoption laws with my brother some five years ago (the debate was at the Houses of Parliament in London so did not concern Scotland alone). He was against the idea of same-sex couples being permitted to adopt, not realising the plan was to give equal rights to all couples, regardless of gender or whether they were married. When he was here a month ago, the subject of adoption came up again - albeit as something I'd do on my own - and he wasn't adverse to the idea of my having a child that way. Even though he doesn't know I'm gay, I take heart from his admitting the only reason he was initially against women priests in the Anglican church was because he found the idea took some getting used to.

It's likely I'll end up adopting a child alone, but it's always encouraging to know that, should some lovely guy want to share his life with mine, we can do so as a couple.

Starting the day on a high

I've just booked my tickets for a brief stay in London next month.

I'll be on holiday for a week, for the first part of which I'll be up here, hoping Dan comes up on a much-delayed visit (he's yet to see the flat), during which I'd hope to go over to Arran to visit Kris, maybe fit in a day in Stirling and/or Aberdeen to see our mutual friend Rod. Then it's off to London to catch up with Luke and his boyfriend, neither of whom I've seen since last September, over the course of a long weekend. It has to be long 'cos I want to go to the Prom on the Sunday evening (Paul McCreesh conducting Purcell's Fairy Queen), which means I can't return until very early on Monday morning.

Should be a fun week ...

The joy of muffins

I found myself buying a little book dedicated to the art of making muffins two days ago and yesterday morning saw me make my first attempt, carrot and sultana. Trouble was, I didn't have enough flour so halved the quantities; if there were such a thing as half an egg, I daresay they wouldn't have turned out so elastic.

Undaunted, I returned home after work with some more ingredients in tow and within an hour had a dozen raspberry muffins cooling on a wire tray. There it might have ended, had I not given some to the neighbours before going out to the pub quiz across the road.

There was a little debate about what we should call the team - I was all for simplicity, some variation along the lines of "number 83", where we all live - but the muffins kept on coming back to haunt us. Then one of us got all Ali G-esque and suggested "the muffin massive", my subsequent suggestion of "the massive raspberry" being deemed perhaps a little crude. There were more of us than last time (eight as opposed to five) as we decided to work together instead of going in for some number 83 rivalry.

Which wasn't a bad thing, 'cos we won.

"Are you gay?"

I went out for a Chinese with my neighbours and a bunch of their friends (10 of us in all) yesterday and didn't get back till 3:30am, one of my rare very late nights.

The meal was excellent (it helps that Asian meals aren't built around a meat dish) and as for the company, let's say it was wonderfully surreal to share a meal with cheesemongers and a Beijing duck obsessive. It wasn't until 11:30pm that we left and I was a little surprised that only two of us were up for carrying on into the night. I was to sing in the morning and probably ought to have headed home, but I'd sort of had my eye on the guy I'd be joining so wasn't about to call it a night.

The revelation that he had a girlfriend didn't change things much from my perspective as I was enjoying his company anyway, but by this stage the alcohol was lowering my inhibitions anyway and he must have had his suspicions. At what stage of the evening he twigged, I don't know, but a couple of hours later, over one last bottle of wine back at his flat, our conversation went something like this:
"Can I ask you a personal question?"
"Sure, go ahead."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, go for it."
"Are you gay?"
"Yes."
At which point he and his flatmate made a point of saying I was welcome round any time. It's always good to find open-minded people ...

(I never did make it to church, as I'd expected my phone to switch itself on automatically at 8:30am to remind me about my medication so didn't bother setting the alarm. Woke up twenty minutes after we were supposed to be there, my voice not surprisingly a bit below the tenor register.)

'The curse is come upon me,' cried The Lady of Shalott.

(Overstating the case a bit, I know, but I do enjoy my quotations.)

It took them 31 years, but my family genes have finally got the better of me: as of today, I'm on medication for the rest of my life. Despite usually having no qualms about growing older, this is one of those instances where it really does feel like the end of an era. Yes, I suppose a new one has begun as well, but it's hard to feel positive about this.

Short-lived though the distraction was, I'm glad I had a new light to install on my return home. I'm not entirely done with that bit of DIY, to be honest - the ceiling'll need a lick of paint to cover the trace left by the old light fitting and there are a couple of holes to be blocked - but it's already a great improvement.

Now to set my phone to remind me about taking a pill every morning ...

Remember the duck in Peter and the wolf?

Back at the doctor's this morning to have my blood pressure taken and, whaddaya know, it was high. What surprised me was the nurse's declaration that I could expect to be on medication today, as ever is. I would have queried this (surely you need carry out endless tests to work out what I'd need), but the next moment she was bundling me off to the Western General Hospital for something called an ECG (which turned out to be an electro-cardiogram). I'm returning to discuss things with the doctor this afternoon, by which time my blood will have been checked for heavens knows what. In the meantime I'll be off looking for a ceiling light for my living room; two spotlights along a rail doesn't really fit in with the decor.

Going back to this blood pressure thing, the nurse did admit that with my family's medical history, it was just as well I wasn't getting worked up about it as it would only increase the problem. Either way, like the duck when it jumps out of the pond, I'm pretty fucked.

A comedic near miss

I've served a few well-known people in the three-and-a-bit years I've worked in classical CD retail: James Fleet (who played Tom in Four weddings) in my London days, the author Ian Rankin and (I'm told) some footballer or other when I was in Glasgow. Today it was the comic Dylan Moran.

Let me start off by pointing out that I make an effort to treat anyone well-known (I have a thing against the term "celebrities') in the same way as I would anyone else. It was the same thing when I worked in the hotel industry, where I felt it was wrong to kick up a fuss about serving a public figure when they would rightly expect to be granted a degree of privacy. It comes down to respect. Add to that the number of my customers who tell me how much they appreciate the peace and quiet of the classical department and it only strengthens my resolve to act with utmost professionalism.

There was a fly in the ointment today: Mr M (bless 'im). Here, I felt (and my colleagues agreed), was a minefield of material for a stand-up comedian. Although they were in my department at the same time, it was only very brief and try as I might, I could not bring myself to recommend Dylan Moran to study the old coot for use in his stand-up routine.

Being professional can be very frustrating!