Six weeks ago today I started my new job and as you might expect things ~so far~ haven't been going to plan. There are plenty of advice columns out there about how to be a good employee and succeed prosperously in your profession, this I assure you is not one of them. But if you are looking for a self-help guide on how to arrive a few minutes late for your shift on a semi-regular basis, mispronounce your manager's name numerous times throughout the day or get emergency taxed twice within one pay period, then I can proudly say you have come to the right place.
It's primarily reception based work I carry out. Sending cold blooded emails, faxing invoices to the wrong people and answering the phone sounding like a speak and spell gobshite are all some of the aspects of my day. I feel my employer's are overall quite happy with me because as a true Irish employee I am very good at covering up the mistakes I do make, what they don't know won't hurt them is a philosophy I have adopted.
Alarmingly, it is the most simple and basic of tasks I am failing at. Straightforward, child's play activities I should master but seemingly cannot. For instance, above us on the first floor of the building there is a Chinese restaurant. Like oriental take-aways throughout the world they don't open until later on in the evening, therefore we accept their mail in the mornings and hand it onto whoever is opening up for them that evening, nothing here screams third level trigonometry. In the last few weeks a routine has unfolded each day and I've got to the stage where I've familiarised myself adequately with this 'handover' to know what I am doing. One of their staff members will usually collect their letters around three o'clock and sure enough it's always someone Asian.
Last Wednesday, it came to the stage of the day where I'd usually be greeted by some dreary waitress, more interested in going for a Brazilian bikini wax with Anne Doyle than do her day's stint. But no one was to be seen. That was until a very happy and very animated Chinese woman and her daughter paraded in, both very jumpy and too S Club 7 for my likening.
Me: "Hi Guys, how may I help ye today?".
Chinese Woman: "Sorry we are late, awful traffic out".
Hyper Daughter: "I like fishes".
Me: "Oh sorry my apologies, I'll get the mail for ye".
Hyper Daughter: "Mommy I need to go toilet".
Both mother and daughter start looking equally puzzled when I place a stack of envelopes addressed to a business they had absolutely no dealings with.
Me: "Here ye go, hope it's not too many bills".
The child who was acting like she was powered by Duracell Batteries literally five seconds beforehand had stopped leaping and the high-spirits were no longer present, the mother looked like she had been sedated. The child who I then learned had an Irish first name no longer needed to use the bathroom, perhaps the impact of my ill-fitted postman episode had caused her to wet herself.
Naturally a silence followed.
Next came a round of stares.
The finale included a one-sided croaking of swear words, all of them in English, unfortunately. She decided in the end not to choose us as a suitable destination for Ava's birthday party, casual racism is an element of the itinerary we might have to re-evaluate.
They say the biggest mistakes make for the best stories, looks like this blog is going to get very entertaining this summer.
It's primarily reception based work I carry out. Sending cold blooded emails, faxing invoices to the wrong people and answering the phone sounding like a speak and spell gobshite are all some of the aspects of my day. I feel my employer's are overall quite happy with me because as a true Irish employee I am very good at covering up the mistakes I do make, what they don't know won't hurt them is a philosophy I have adopted.
 |
| Colleagues who work out together, kill together. |
Alarmingly, it is the most simple and basic of tasks I am failing at. Straightforward, child's play activities I should master but seemingly cannot. For instance, above us on the first floor of the building there is a Chinese restaurant. Like oriental take-aways throughout the world they don't open until later on in the evening, therefore we accept their mail in the mornings and hand it onto whoever is opening up for them that evening, nothing here screams third level trigonometry. In the last few weeks a routine has unfolded each day and I've got to the stage where I've familiarised myself adequately with this 'handover' to know what I am doing. One of their staff members will usually collect their letters around three o'clock and sure enough it's always someone Asian.
Last Wednesday, it came to the stage of the day where I'd usually be greeted by some dreary waitress, more interested in going for a Brazilian bikini wax with Anne Doyle than do her day's stint. But no one was to be seen. That was until a very happy and very animated Chinese woman and her daughter paraded in, both very jumpy and too S Club 7 for my likening.
Me: "Hi Guys, how may I help ye today?".
Chinese Woman: "Sorry we are late, awful traffic out".
Hyper Daughter: "I like fishes".
Me: "Oh sorry my apologies, I'll get the mail for ye".
Hyper Daughter: "Mommy I need to go toilet".
Both mother and daughter start looking equally puzzled when I place a stack of envelopes addressed to a business they had absolutely no dealings with.
Me: "Here ye go, hope it's not too many bills".
The child who was acting like she was powered by Duracell Batteries literally five seconds beforehand had stopped leaping and the high-spirits were no longer present, the mother looked like she had been sedated. The child who I then learned had an Irish first name no longer needed to use the bathroom, perhaps the impact of my ill-fitted postman episode had caused her to wet herself.
Naturally a silence followed.
Next came a round of stares.
The finale included a one-sided croaking of swear words, all of them in English, unfortunately. She decided in the end not to choose us as a suitable destination for Ava's birthday party, casual racism is an element of the itinerary we might have to re-evaluate.
They say the biggest mistakes make for the best stories, looks like this blog is going to get very entertaining this summer.
 |
| My life shouldn't be this like Father Ted. |
0 comments:
Post a Comment