There is no conceivable way that I’m going to finish writing about every season of Doctor Who before tonight. I’ve only watched halfway up to series three, I’ve only posted about series one, and I’ve not even finished writing about series two. It’s just not happening.
This isn’t me giving up, however. I’m not rescinding my previous declaration; I’m just altering it slightly.
Thing is, when I decided I was going to write about Doctor Who, and drafted my ambitious ten-post series, I was still living in Llanfair, freshly back from America, and bored out of my mind. Since then, I’ve moved house, got a job, been spending more time with certain groups of friends on and off, attended family functions, and got another job.
I haven’t been this busy in at least two years (although truth-be-told, I’m not that busy now. I only work a few days a week). And so obviously, something that I decided to do when I was anything but busy no longer has its place. As I said, I will get back to that, but that’s not what this post is about.
What is this post about? Well, I’m not sure really, but criticisms of what’s going on in ones life can always make for amusing reading, so I’ll go with that.
And what do I have to complain about? Work, I suppose. I’m grateful for it, obviously; I’m desperate for the money. But there are always those little things, aren’t there? The little touches about the workplace, or tasks handed down to you that you just can’t bear.
My first new job, working at a delicatessen, has left me pretty well off, if I’m honest. The only actual complaint I would have would be my declining amount of hours each week, and that’s partly my fault anyway.
So instead I’ll complain about something much more futile that really has nothing to do with how the establishment is run at all: the leftovers I have to dig out of the sink.
The Muck Hole
Yeah, the muck hole. I think the chef/my-sort-of-boss at the deli thinks I love washing up. I don’t; it just kills time quickly, and there’s always some of it to do. Plus, you can’t make a mistake washing up, like you can with an order. It’s peaceful, relaxing, and after you’ve been in the hot steamy kitchen for over an hour, stepping out into a cool breeze makes it feel like you’re entering paradise.
The biggest downside is, of course, that by this point you stink of all the dishes you’ve just had to clean. And the reason they smell so bad is because no one ever wipes them down or empties them! Its not that hard! There is a bin right next to the sink! (This isn’t particularly aimed at my current workplace, this is something I’ve found in multiple jobs). And then, there are the people who not only don’t wipe, but dump all their metaphorical shit in the sink, and then walk off.
I swear to god, two weeks ago, I dug out the contents of what I can only imagine was a whole chicken and bacon sandwich, just crammed into the plug hole.
Or mushrooms; mushrooms are bad. I like mushrooms, but I can only take so much of them when they’re cooked and on my plate. When they’re soggy, flaccid and feel like a butchered slug, I have no intention of touching them. Unfortunately, I have no say in the matter, because its my job.
I have a load more to say about this, but as I’ve been typing I’ve come to realise that this needs to be split in two, lest it become too long for anyone to bother reading, which I fear it may be already.
So today’s my first solo day in the aforementioned second job. When my shift is over, I’ll be back with part two, and a host of new complaints, I’m sure.